Secrets
by Got Tea
Summary: It's nearly Christmas, but the tiny sphere of quiet, cosy privacy that Boyd and Grace have built between them is beginning to crack under the strain of secrets. Fourth story in the Communication Series. Follows The Gesture.
1. Chapter 1

**This story has been sitting unfinished for a very long time now, and it's thanks to a comment made by Gemenied that I found the inspiration to keep going with it. Huge thanks are due to missDuncan for friendly badgering and stubborn, patient cheerleading, and to Joodiff for continually reminding me why I love to write, and for taking on such an epic betaing task. Massive hugs to you both.**

 **Happy Birthday, Gemenied. I hope you have a lovely day. Enjoy. :) xx**

* * *

 **Secrets**

 **…**

"For the last time, Katherine, no!" growls Boyd, increasingly irritated by the insistent pestering being directed his way, and therefore accordingly disinclined to continue the conversation that seems to be serving no purpose other than distracting his attention away from other far more important tasks, and irritating him. Severely.

On the other end of the phone, his sister sighs heavily. "For heaven's sake, Peter, you can't spend Christmas on your own. Not again," she snaps, every bit as impatient, headstrong and aggressively determined as her younger brother.

"I'm not going to be on my own," he retorts, desperately hoping to end the call and the whole inconvenient matter. Katherine snorts derisively in his ear.

"Please," she sneers, "I really don't want to hear about your idea of pleasant… _company_." She pauses, and Boyd unconsciously grinds his teeth, wondering how to shut her up without causing full-scale open warfare. The last time he and Katherine fell out over a year went by before they managed to even look at each other again. It was an unpleasant situation, and one he really, really doesn't want to repeat, but he has absolutely no intention of doing what she wants. It's just a shame that they are so similar in temperament.

Evidently, Katherine doesn't want to argue with him either though, because he hears her take a long, very telling deep breath before abruptly changing tactics.

"I'm sorry," she apologises, "that was uncalled for. But, Peter, really, the kids want to see you. I want to see you. So does Andrew." Their older brother – idolised by both during their youth – has been missing for most of the last year, having recently retired and been off travelling the globe with his wife. But, tempting though the thought is, Boyd is resolute.

"No," he repeats, but with considerably less vigour. "Not this year, Katherine, I'm sorry." She'll be furious at his refusal, and it's unfortunate, but he's not going to change his mind. If the circumstances were different, he would be drawn by the offer, but they're not and he isn't. He won't be.

"Damn you, Peter," she snaps at him. "Why can't you just think about someone else for a change? Christmas is for families and whether you like it or not you _are_ part of this family. I get that last year was dreadful for you, I really do. We loved Luke too, you know, and we'll never forget him, but for God's sake, you can't just shut everyone out of your life and go on pretending that –"

"It's not about Luke," he interrupts her.

"Then why can't you just accept that we all –" she begins, but he's given up and tuned her out, knowing she will be thoroughly intent on berating him into submission if she thinks she needs to.

Returning to the onerous task of signing a batch of paperwork heading for the CPS, he manages to forget he's even on the phone until one particularly persistent line of questioning about spending the holidays in stubborn isolation filters though into his consciousness, making him sigh in heavy frustration and wonder what he can do to get her not just off the phone, but also to leave him alone as well. He has absolutely no intention of explaining his current circumstances to her, no matter how well-meaning she may be. But as the tone of her attack changes, picking up a hint of that pressing bullishness that is just a touch too familiar, his patience finally evaporates, and with it any sense of communicative endurance.

He's had enough. He knows from bitter experience that Katherine will keep badgering him unless he ends this. He'll just have to deal with the consequences further down the road. Bluntly, and regrettably rather rudely, he cuts her off mid-rant.

"I said no, Katherine, and I meant it. I have to go – I'm busy. Have a good Christmas. Goodbye." Hanging up the phone he tosses it angrily onto his desk and stalks out into the squadroom. Right now a glass of whiskey would be very much appreciated, but he'll have to settle for a coffee instead. Waiting for the machine to produce its results, he glares irritably out at the empty room and wonders why there is no one available to shout at when he really needs it.

…

When he attempts to pull onto his drive later that evening he finds, much to his annoyance, that there is already a car parked in his customary spot and he can't stop the heavy groan that escapes as he recognises not only the vehicle itself, but also the driver and the passenger. Impatient as ever, Katherine gets out before he's even brought the Audi to a full stop and she stands staring at him, the fingers of her right hand tapping an edgy, staccato beat against her thigh. Andrew is more reserved, easing slowly from the passenger side and waiting quietly as Boyd shuts off the engine and takes a deep, lingering breath in the hope of summoning some scrap of the patience he is undoubtedly going to need.

The two of them make quite an imposing picture standing there, and if he didn't know them and was the type to be easily intimidated, he can imagine he would be. He and Andrew are the same height, but his brother is much broader and still heavily muscular, even thirty odd years after his rugby career ended. They share the same eyes, but Andrew's nose clearly bears testament to having met more than one unkind fist over the years.

Katherine has the appearance to match her personality; in her bare feet she's three inches taller than her brothers, and has the kind of outrageously statuesque curves that only really belong in airbrushed magazines and Hollywood films. Her features are dark and prominent, her eyes piercing; Boyd's seen her in action in a court room only once, but he'll never forget it. She's what his brother once termed, 'lethally elegant'.

"I see you brought reinforcements," he says without preamble, the moment he is out of the car, not giving Katherine any chance to get the first word in. "You could have saved yourself the trouble. I said no." He's glaring at his sister, not at all wanting to have this conversation with her again today, or any other day, for that matter, but he reaches out to his brother and they exchange a warm handshake.

"You look good," Boyd says, appraising the relaxed, healthy appearance of Katherine's intended mediator. Tanned and healthy, Andrew grins cheerfully; he's always been as easy-going as the other two have been prickly and volatile.

"Cheers. You don't!" he replies. Boyd doesn't take offence. Brutal honesty has always been a core value between the three of them. He shrugs. He's tired, and he knows it shows. It's been a long, hard few months.

"Too much to do, not enough time to do it in," he replies, walking to the front door. It's far too cold to hang around outside any longer than necessary, and the gentle breeze from earlier in the day has become much more biting.

"Bloody hell," gasps Katherine as they troop through the door, "it's freezing in here, Peter." She's not far off the mark. The thermostat is set somewhere in the vicinity of twelve degrees; just enough to keep the house healthy and ticking over while it sits empty and disused. It's really not that much of an improvement on outside.

There's a large pile of post on the floor and Boyd scoops it up, carrying it through to the kitchen where he dumps it on the table to sort into two piles; needs attention, and for the bin. Andrew leans against the door, looking around in casual interest while Katherine slips straight back in to her earlier argument.

"It's Christmas, Peter – Dad would turn in his grave if he knew you were intending to ignore the rest of us and hole up here on your own."

"I've already told you," Boyd replies, with remarkable restraint, "I won't be alone. Nor will I be here."

"Oh for God's sake, why can't you ever do anything without an argument?" she demands, irritably stalking the length of the room before pausing to examine the dust gathering on the window ledges.

"Coming from a barrister, that's bloody rich," he barks back. Katherine turns to glare furiously at him, and there's real venom in her gaze now. She opens her mouth to reply, but Andrew gets there first.

"Enough," he orders, his voice firm and uncompromising, but no more elevated than usual. It's a tone they both learned to listen to the hard way when they were kids. Katherine's eyes narrow, but she stops talking. Andrew looks at them both, and then sighs. "Peter, I agree with Katherine. Christmas is family time. Always has been. Why are you so adamant you won't join us?"

"I can't," replies Boyd instantly, which is the truth.

"Why not?" snaps Katherine. She runs a finger along the surfaces and lifts it to her eyes to inspect. "God, this place is dusty. And cold. It's almost like you don't live here."

Boyd shrugs. "I don't." He turns back to sorting his post. There's more of it than usual; typically he drops by the house once a week or so to check on things, but with recent events it's been closer to three weeks now.

They both stare at him – he can feel their eyes boring into the back of his head. "Where _do_ you live?" asks Andrew, curious.

"Finchley," he replies absently, having found an envelope of interest.

"Wonderful," sighs Katherine, with just a touch of the childish dramatic flare she's never quite managed to outgrow. "But I still don't understand why you have to be so difficult."

Abruptly his patience evaporates. "I'm not being difficult, Katherine," he grinds out, just, and only just, managing to keep his voice from rising ominously. "I told you I can't come, and that's the end of it. I won't be holed up here, and I won't be alone, so will you please just drop it?" She's not going to, he can tell, and he really doesn't want to deal with it right now.

Andrew attempts to save him with a different question. "Why don't you live here?"

It's been a long day, he's tired, and all he really wants is to go home. It doesn't even occur to him that he has ceased to think of his own house as home. The fight slowly draining out of him, he leans back against the table, half sitting on the edge as he stares down at the envelope in his hands. Studying each individual letter that makes up his address, he wonders what to tell them. Neither of them will be easily satisfied, but he can't help feeling as though he's being backed into a corner and forced into admitting something that he's just not ready to share with anyone yet.

"Peter?" Andrew is milder than Katherine by far, but there's still a note of insistent concern in his voice as he tries to gently prod a response.

A wave of sadness flares, almost overwhelming in its sudden intensity, and Boyd feels his grip inadvertently tightening, creasing the letter. "Because," he replies, quietly and without really intending to, "I live with Grace."

Even Katherine picks up on his sudden subdued calm; she's softer by far as she probes for more information. "Who's Grace?"

Boyd feels a smile break through as he thinks of her. It warms his entire face, something the other two can't fail to notice. "She's… everything. My best friend. My other half. My… she's everything."

"Then why don't you bring her with you?" suggests Andrew.

Boyd shakes his head. "I can't."

"Why not?" Katherine is still frustrated, but she's also very perceptive and is quickly beginning to understand that there is something else at play in this situation.

Boyd sighs heavily, knowing there's no way out of this now. "She's not well," he explains, desperately hoping they will leave it at that. He really doesn't want to get into the details, just wants to get out of here and go home.

"Does it matter?" Katherine wants to know. "Half the kids have whatever bug is going around, but that's no problem. Everyone will be so full of excitement that a few sniffles won't bother anyone."

"She hasn't just got a cold," Boyd snaps angrily, and he's on his feet again and pacing the room rapidly without even knowing it. "She …" Even after all this time though, he still can't say it. He just can't. "Her immune system is totally compromised. An infection could kill her. It's nearly happened before already."

"What is it, Peter? What's wrong?" asks Andrew quietly, observing the mix of deeply frustrated anger and gripping, miserable fear simmering within his brother.

Boyd looks up, holds his gaze steadily. He swallows and tries to speak. "She's got…" again his voice trails away, and for a moment he closes his eyes tightly, hands clenching into fists as he fights to keep his voice level, his wavering emotions under control. "She's just finished chemotherapy," he finally says.

The silence is absolute. Deafening. And it stretches for a seeming eternity, before Andrew finally speaks again. "Has it worked?"

Boyd turns away, walks to the window and stares out into the dark. He can see nothing. The metaphor is not lost on him. "We don't know yet," is all he manages, before the silence takes over again.

"I'm sorry," Katherine finally tells him, and there's a great deal of honest compassion in her voice.

Boyd's too tired for this. For the arguments, the explanations, and the pity. Especially the pity. They've purposefully said nothing to as many people as possible to avoid exactly this kind of situation. Grace didn't, and still doesn't, want a fuss. She wants peace and quiet, and to deal with it all in as uninterrupted a way as possible and that's more than fine with him. The less people who know means the less people pushing in where they aren't wanted or needed, or trying to clumsily offer help that isn't helpful. Maybe it's uncharitable, and a small part of his mind has occasionally pushed and nagged at him regarding that decision during moments of weakness, but his priorities are crystal clear to him. Grace is what matters. Grace is who comes first, and Grace is who he will protect and help, and look after with everything he has.

Feeling old and tired and thoroughly battered, he looks at them both and shrugs. "It is what it is," he sighs wearily. "I can't change any of it, though I've wished it often enough," he adds, and neither of them miss the bitterness in his tone. He shifts his eyes to Katherine. "So I'm sorry, but it's just not going to happen. Not this time. Maybe next year, if we're lucky."

…

Driving home, his thoughts assault him in a chaotic tangle that's every bit as angry as it is raw.

He didn't lie to his siblings, but he was a little economical with the truth. Yes, unnecessarily exposing Grace to infection is a bad idea, but she's far more likely to suffer from a bug related to the bacteria she's already carrying somewhere in or on her own body. The kind of thing that lives in everyone, but that she just can't currently fight off. The idea of it is a daily torment to him. And she does seem to be developing something of a cold; she was a little warm this morning, and sneezing a lot. He's been hoping it was just dust or something in the air, but considering their luck it's highly unlikely.

Their luck… he scowls without thinking about it, automatically slowing for a junction and flicking on the car's left hand indicator. Their luck, which has so far been anything but good.

 _We have each other_ , he grimly reminds himself, as he has done repetitively for months now, hoping against it all that the one good thing to come out of this entire brutal saga will be the thing to get them both through it.

The light turns red and he's forced to a stop, staring tiredly out at the traffic around him.

Christmas with his family would have been nice, but his choice was absolutely the right one to make. He didn't lie, an infection could kill her. But that's not why he refused.

No, the real reason he doesn't want to go is the sheer chaos of it all.

Katherine and Dan have three kids and five grandkids, and Andrew and Marion have two sons, two grandsons and twin three-year-old great-granddaughters. And that's without the added insanity of the in-laws. The whole group together is loud, exceedingly rowdy, and very boisterous. Holidays, birthdays or any other occasion requiring a mass gathering is never a relaxing affair. Ever. He has trouble coping with them on his best days; Grace would be overwhelmed in minutes. Next year – if they get a next year – it could be wonderful, but this time she's simply far too fragile.

They talked about it, and much the same as her birthday – which sadly fell on one of the absolute worst days she's had – Grace said she just wanted to spend the time with him and forget about the rest. He was happy to agree. Uninterrupted time spent with Grace, just the two of them, is extremely valuable and absolutely treasured. By both of them.

No, he muses, glaring at the absurdly, obnoxiously bright orange hatchback blocking his path as the traffic lights change, they might be his family, and he definitely loves them, but he'd far rather spend the day quietly and peacefully this year.

Pressing his foot down on the accelerator and pulling away from the junction he tries to ignore the other matter. The unspoken one. The one that weighs heavily on both of them, and though they don't talk about it, they are both well aware that the other is thinking about it. What if this is it? What if this is the only Christmas that they get to spend together? If the chemo hasn't worked, what then? For all their joint determination, and all their desperation for the promised future together, she might not recover. She might still… die. And then what? It remains untouched subject, but it's very definitely on both their minds. No matter how much they try to ignore it.


	2. Chapter 2

The evening is a quiet one, as are most these days. They have dinner and talk about the day; Grace has a profile of sorts ready for him, amassed from the array of files, reports and documentation the team has sent her. She's a little apprehensive, not having met the suspect in question, and reiterates the point about her judgement being only a partial one, but Boyd is still thrilled that she is finally feeling well enough to spend more than a couple of hours doing something before needing a break or accidently nodding off. Perhaps she finally is on the road to recovery.

Or perhaps not; the dust is definitely not to blame for the constant sniffling, sneezing and the slightly too-warm feel of her skin when he presses his lips to her forehead.

"I called the doctor," she finally admits as, cold and shivering, she curls into him, almost burrowing into his warmth. "She wants to see me tomorrow."

"Good," is his blunt and very honest reply. He's inordinately glad they aren't going to have another argument about what constitutes a necessary visit to the doctor and what can safely be dismissed as just another side effect. She really is far too stubborn for her own good.

"It's just a cold," she mumbles, head resting against his shoulder. His arm snakes around her waist, holding her close as he kisses her temple.

"But you don't have anything useful in the way of an immune system," he finishes, and then he grins when a small, furry body appears from under the coffee table, springing lightly up beside them and sprawling out across Grace's legs. Freyja has taken to the post of furry, purry hot water bottle with great enthusiasm; she and Grace are already inseparable. Exactly as Boyd predicted, despite his rather uncharacteristic attack of nerves and indecision, his other half is madly in love with the very beautiful and exceedingly affectionate – if rather naughty – bundle of grey fur. He really does feel quite smug about it.

Reaching across with his free hand, he idly teases the closest paw; Freyja flexes her toes for a moment, before curling them possessively around his finger, making him smirk. Grace isn't the only one who is completely smitten with their new addition.

Out of the blue, she suddenly asks, "Are you all right?"

Preoccupied with his feline friend, Boyd is caught off guard by her question and frowns in confusion. "Of course I am. Why do you ask?"

Grace shifts slightly closer, her fingers running lightly over the back of his hand before sliding gently between his, linking them together.

"You've been tense since you got home," she murmurs. "As though something – or someone – has upset you."

He sighs and squeezes her hand lightly, ruefully reflecting that he should have known there really was no way he was going to get that one past her – even ill and exhausted she's still far too good at reading people, and him in particular.

"Katherine called me at work," he admits slowly, apprehension creeping steadily through him about the direction this conversation could easily take.

Her head moves slightly, just enough for her lips to press a soft kiss to his collarbone. "Why?"

"She was pestering me about Christmas. Again." Despite his resolution to leave it all back at his house he finds that earlier anger returning, and accordingly, and entirely against his will, his voice rises in irritation. "Why can't she just leave me alone?"

It's a rhetorical question – one Grace wisely chooses not to answer, instead just tightens her grip a gentle, reassuring fraction and smooths her thumb lightly over his knuckles. He falls silent again, contemplating the afternoon and the sight of his brother looking so fit and well. Even if the circumstances were far from ideal, it was good to see Andrew. Very good. It's been far too long since the two of them sat down for a pint and put the world to rights, something he really should do something about in the New Year.

Andrew has always been the one to chase him down, though, the one who took the responsibility of being an older brother as seriously as everything else in his calm, structured life. Always there to talk to, to offer the kind of wise and knowing advice that comes of being just a few years older and innately more calm, thoughtful and controlled. Always, in fact, the one Boyd looked up to and went to first; it was Andrew who bailed him out of trouble as a teenager, Andrew who served as best man at his wedding, and Andrew, who, when the marriage dissolved, was there with a listening ear and a steady insistence that dragged them both onto the squash courts time and time again, a tactic that effectively allowed Boyd to work off his frustrations and kept him from a slow descent into the bottom of a bottle. The two of them have been close their entire lives, always there for one another – for the support is a two way street, and when a catastrophic injury prematurely ended Andrew's rugby career, it was largely Boyd who picked up the pieces – until the last few years, and the distance Boyd knows he is almost solely guilty of creating.

He stays lost in his thoughts for a while, still lazily playing with Freyja's toes and watching the slow, steadily rhythmic way Grace runs her hand over silvery leopard spots, lulling the cat into blissful sleepiness, as he contemplates the past and the tangle of actions and events that have brought him to where he is now. His thoughts eventually circle back to Katherine and her doubtlessly well-intentioned though still infuriating pursuit today, and his fury inadvertently begins to build steadily again. "And do you know what else?" he demands angrily, abruptly launching back into the lapsed conversation. "She had the… the _audacity_ … to ambush me at my own house. And she brought Andrew as backup! _Un_ believable!"

Just as abruptly he falls silent again, fuming to himself, even as he lets his head rest against hers, breathing slow, steady breaths and inhaling the scent of her, soaking in the comforting warmth of her against his body. Unwanted though the thoughts are, Boyd still allows himself to consider what it is that's really bothering him – whether the root of his anger is really Katherine's impatient, bullish persistence in trying to force him back into the family fold. He suspects not, thinks that in reality it's the sudden loss of his secret, and what that might mean for the tiny sphere of quiet, cosy privacy that he and Grace have built between them. It's been over six months now, and in all that time they have managed to keep their life their own, have stopped short of allowing anyone else in on the secret they share, and he likes it that way.

 _Eve_ , a tiny voice in the back of his mind mutters rebelliously. _You let Eve in – she knows all about your little secret_. He dismisses the thought immediately. He trusts Eve; he trusts her implicitly, and he knows she would never betray their confidence. The voice doesn't seem to want to leave him alone though. _Hang on,_ it continues snidely, _you trust Eve, but not your family?_ It's an unpalatable thought, but one that has some truth to it. Unless there was a very good reason for it, Andrew would be unlikely to share anything discussed between the two of them, but Katherine… she's another story. Unless he actually forbade her to share anything – which he's absolutely certain that in his haste to get away from the two of them and home to Grace he didn't – then any news or gossip is fair game. It's the way the three of them have always operated – clear, expressed boundaries that they all respect and adhere to.

Screwing his eyes together in frustration, he bites back the stream of expletives running through his mind and takes yet another deep, steadying breath. Grace shifts against him a little, turning so that more of her body is in contact with his. It works some kind of magic on him, helping bring his rising stress levels back down again and allowing his thoughts to relax and flow with more ease.

Does he really trust his family that little, he wonders, turning the question over and over in his mind in what seems like a futile waste of energy. He loves them, undoubtedly, but does he trust them so little with his secret, his life? It's not a question of trust, he eventually decides, it's just a question of knowing. And sharing. Until now he hasn't had to share what, despite all the pain and the uncertainty, and the suffering and the fear, is undoubtedly the best thing he has in his life, with any more than a handful of medical professionals whose opinions are of no significance, and one other person who has offered only strength and compassion, kindness and much needed help to both of them. Until now what it is they have between them has been entirely protected from prying eyes, and that, he realises, is what has made the horror and the difficulty of it all bearable.

It was Grace's choice – and then his – not to make any fuss. To deal quietly and privately with whatever fate threw their way. And that sphere of solitude has given them the time to adjust to each other, to learn and develop and adapt to the intimacy of a life shared together. That, he realises, is what he is clinging so fiercely to, what he is so disturbed about the prospect of losing, or changing. It's not that he doesn't trust his family; it's simply that he's so fiercely protective of Grace and what they finally have together.

He imagines that if circumstances were different then he wouldn't think twice about introducing her, about sharing his newfound happiness with Andrew and Katherine, at least. But that isn't the case, and the fates have dealt them both this blow of lingering uncertainty. The one constant in the ongoing fear that there might not be a tomorrow, or a next week, next month, is that while it lasts, it is just the two of them, and their time is their own to share and to treasure however they wish.

Letting out another long, slow breath Boyd concentrates on the release of tension as his thoughts resolve themselves. He doesn't know what will happen next, and he can't control his family, but he can, and does, understand his own reactions. So his siblings now know – that doesn't mean a thing. They will support him, that he knows with certainty, and they may even share with the family that he has someone new in his life, but he knows them, and, he realises, he's over-reacted somewhat and not given them anything like the credit they are due. Neither of them will share the fact that his partner is ill – perhaps with their own spouses, but that is as far as it will go. His secret is still relatively safe, for neither of them will pry, either. Now they have established contact, and they know he is all right, they will afford him the same privacy they themselves would ask for if the situation were reversed. Katherine may be partial to a bit of gossip here and there, but she has always known and respected the difference between what is trivial and mildly interesting, and what is serious and personal.

Relatively reassured his world is not going to suddenly implode or fall apart at the seams, he consciously lets his thoughts go, slipping instead into a state of sensory concentration and letting only the feedback of the moment enter his mind. Grace, warm and comfortably curled against him, her head resting against his shoulder, her fingers still linked warmly with his. She sneezes, her slender frame jerking violently as she supresses a groan before trying to tuck herself even closer. Freyja turns her head to glare at them both, meowing loudly in disgust; jolted from her nap she abandons her perch and leaps up onto the back of the sofa, tail twitching irritably. In response Boyd moves, lying back against the cushions and stretching his long legs out as he reclines along the length of the furniture, taking Grace with him. Wrapping her in his arms, flush against him, he envelops her completely in his larger body and brushes tender lips against her head, nuzzling the short, spiky hair there as she sighs softly in pleasure.

"Do you want to go to Katherine's for Christmas?" she asks, voice sleepy but still holding a level of seriousness.

Inordinately glad she can't see his face, Boyd grimaces. This, he thinks wryly, is exactly what he was hoping to avoid. "No," he replies, hoping she will take the answer as is, as the honest truth that it is. "I don't."

"Are you sure?" There's no challenge in her tone, no pressure. Just a depth of understanding that simultaneously warms his heart as much as it tears at it. "I can't go, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't if you want to, Peter."

He's absolutely sincere as he replies, "I don't want to." He kisses her hair again, runs a gentle hand up and down her back, trying hard not to notice, and worry about, the weight she has lost – much of it quite recently. "All I want, Grace, is to stay here with you and shut out the entire world for the duration of the time I have off."

She doesn't press him, doesn't take it any further. She simply accepts his decision and snuggles closer, her softly murmured, "Thank you," reaching his ears. They fall into peaceful silence, tenderly entwined beneath the blanket as they think of nothing in particular and allow the time to pass. This lazy peacefulness has become their kind of evening, content to do nothing but share each other's company whenever and however they can. It's not the sort of thing he ever imagined would be a part of his life, but he's surprised himself with just how much he enjoys it. Having adjusted to the limitations that her illness has given them, they take whatever they can, aware that every moment is valuable to them.

The clock ticks, the cat purrs, and they both breathe. Slow and steady, a gently entangled languid harmony. A hand wanders, seeking soft skin and contact simply for the joy of sensation and reassurance, not for anything else. The world slips away and his mind clears, thoughts and feelings and emotions leaving him in peace, letting him rest.

But then Grace sneezes again and he reaches for a tissue as a weak cough rattles in her chest, shattering the moment and forcing him to fight down a sudden wave of panic and dread at the possibilities of what this cold might develop into. An ugly, recurring thought rears in his mind, taunting him as he wonders yet again if there exists a single complication she hasn't had during treatment. Hurriedly, almost frantically, Boyd forces himself think of other things, refusing to examine that terrifying prospect too closely, to get lost in the spiralling chaos of dark thoughts and memories that he knows will too easily consume him, preoccupy him for hours if he's not careful.

"About tomorrow," he begins cautiously, because there is the potential for a catastrophic argument here and he'd really rather avoid anything of the sort, though, in this instance, if he has to go there, he will. She comes first – her health does – every time. Even if he has to remember it for her.

"Peter," she sighs, almost whines. Almost, but not quite. "It's Christmas Eve and I haven't seen everyone in weeks."

"I know that," he replies softly, "but can you honestly tell me you feel well enough to go to the doctor and then trek all the way to work?"

"No," she shrugs, absolutely honest, "I can't. But I want to."

"Grace," he begins, though he has no idea how to direct his argument, how to make sense of the mess of concerns and anxieties that are tumbling around inside his head and heart, every single one of them concerning her and her welfare.

"I'm tired of not feeling well enough to do anything," she tells him, watching as Freyja reaches down from the back of the sofa and bats a paw at a rogue strand of his hair. "I'm tired of being tired all the time."

He won't win this one, he knows it. He doesn't want to either. He really, really wants to see her down in their underground lair tomorrow, but he worries about her. Constantly.

"If I feel really bad I won't come," she finally allows.

"Okay," he agrees. He tilts his head, rests it against hers. Breathes in her scent again. He doesn't tell her exactly how much everyone else would love to see her; she'd only push herself harder to get there, regardless of her health. He doesn't tell her how many times a day he looks through the glass into her empty office, either. How her absence has made work feel out of balance and off-kilter for months now. How, if he didn't get to come home to her at the end of every day, he'd probably have lost his mind by this point. Instead he just holds her close and stubbornly forces himself to hope that everything will be all right in the end.


	3. Chapter 3

The afternoon is wearing on, and in the true spirit of Christmas Eve, not a lot is actually being accomplished out in the squad room, but that doesn't really matter to Boyd today. Each of his team members works hard; every single one of them frequently going above and beyond for the team and the unit, and they deserve the break, the high spirits and the festive cheer. His nerves, however, are slowly fraying down to their very last fibres. Too much time has passed since the appointed hour of the visit to the doctor and he has seen or heard nothing from her since – he's been uneasily pacing for well over an hour now, trying not to let any of the multiple disaster scenarios flitting through his mind take hold and run wild. His phone is lying somewhere on his desk and he wanders back to his office to check it yet again, scowling irritably at the lack of activity.

As he turns to walk back out again though, he stops in the doorway and stares as one of the double doors swings open and Grace appears; she's bundled up like an Eskimo and still shivering, but there's a smile on her face. She's here. Finally. He's frozen, absolutely rooted to the spot, and he leans heavily on the doorframe for a moment to cover the overwhelming rush of relief coursing through him, watching as the others leap to their feet, her name falling joyously from their lips as they scramble to greet her.

She looks good; the layers of bright, cheerful colours do a lot to disguise how frail she's become, how generally unwell she actually is. But he knows her far too well, and he can easily spot that she's tired, that the bug is really gaining ground now, and that she's bitterly cold. She's taken her coat off, but her scarf is still firmly wrapped around her neck as the onslaught of greetings and hugs slowly subsides and she turns to him with a reassuring grin. He loves that smile; loves it for multiple reasons. It tells him she's not feeling too bad. Yet. It also tells him how happy she is. It lights up her entire face as well as her eyes, and makes him lose himself in the natural beauty of her.

He'd give anything for a few private moments with her right now, but that's not to be, so instead he smiles in response and moves forward to give her a gentle hug, as is expected.

"How are you?" he asks, also expected, and she nods.

"Okay," is the unembellished reply. It's code – their code – and it means the doctor didn't find anything out of the ordinary. Just a cold; no reason to worry unnecessarily, but they should keep their eyes open for any changes, any worsening of her condition. All the standard stuff that is a repetitively boring and familiar part of their daily lives.

"Yeah?" he asks. It takes a lot of effort to let go, but he pulls back to look at her. She nods again. He's asking how she's feeling, she's letting him know she's all right for the moment. They both know that later she's likely to fall asleep well before bedtime.

They drift as a group to the central desks, all pretence of work now thoroughly abandoned, and slip into easy and familiar chatter and company. It's nice, and it's comforting, but there is something missing. Or someone, actually.

"Where's Eve?" asks Grace, glancing in the direction of the stairs, hoping to see the pathologist appear and join their gathering.

"She got called out to an exhumation," Spencer explains, and he's still grinning at her, appearing absurdly happy to see her back in the basement, even if only for a little while.

"She'll be really upset to have missed you," adds Kat, who is also smiling warmly.

"Oh, that's a shame," sighs Grace, clearly sad not to see her friend and wish her a Merry Christmas.

She's soon distracted though, as the group takes it upon themselves to regale her with stories from her absence, and before long the laughter is everywhere and the rest of the afternoon is passing by in a very pleasant fashion. When five o'clock eventually rolls around, Boyd gives in to the holiday spirit, wishes everyone a good night and a Merry Christmas, and then liberates them all off to their respective celebrations.

From the relative safety and periphery of his office, where he has momentarily retreated to allow the goodbyes to take place, he watches as Grace finds herself once again swept into a tide of hugs.

"I really hope you're coming back soon," Spencer murmurs next to her ear as he says goodbye. "He hasn't said a word, but he's obviously missing you like crazy. We all are, but he's perpetually grumpy these days – there's no one to argue with him." Lip reading – it's a skill he's never shared his proficiency in with anyone, though he would bet serious money Grace is well aware of his talent.

He doesn't allow himself to dwell on Spence's comment, instead watches the way she laughs lightly and shakes her head in amusement. "Fingers crossed, Spence," she tells him easily "I'm itching to get back again. Sitting at home is boring." He hugs her tighter for just a moment before letting go again.

"All right?" asks Boyd as the others filter out into the night and it's just the two of them left behind.

"Tired," she admits, "but happy."

"Good," he replies, holding out her coat so she can slide her arms into it. Shrugging into his own, he watches as she fastens all her buttons and pulls the collar up against the freezing December night.

"Do I pass inspection?" Her expression is teasing as she pulls on her thick gloves, fully prepared now to go outside.

Boyd grins, knowing he's been caught out in his over-protectiveness. "Always," he murmurs, and it's accompanied by the soft smile he reserves only for her. Their eyes meet, and they are momentarily ensnared, locked firmly in place by the silent words caught in the gaze shared between them.

He offers his arm and Grace takes it; it's been a long day, she's tired and it's a friendly gesture. No one left in the building will think anything of it. He hopes. "You okay?" she asks as they near the building's exit. Briefly puzzled, he soon realises that his faintly pensive thoughts must be reflected in his expression, giving away that something that is bothering him.

"Fine," he shrugs as they make their way outside into a blast of icy air. He falls silent again for a few moments, contemplating the afternoon, before eventually confessing, "You had me worried earlier."

"Why?" She leans into him unconsciously, already shivering.

He shrugs again, searching for the right words that will convey his point without sharing too much of his edgy nervousness and earlier fear – the fear that hasn't left him in months now, but has only grown, seemingly a little bit more with every passing day. "I just thought you'd get here long before you did, that's all."

"You worry too much, Peter," she tells him gently. "I went to the chemist before they shut. The doctor gave me a prescription for some mild antibiotics as a precaution. She was concerned I might end up with pneumonia again otherwise."

"Pneumonia. Again." His voice is flat, the alarm bells tolling loudly and discordantly inside his skull as the two of them reach the car. "And you think I worry too much – have you forgotten what happened the last time you had pneumonia?" he wants to know as they get in and he starts the engine, turning the heater up immediately. Her earlier shivering has moved on to outright shaking now and Boyd's teeth clench as a wave of anger bubbles its way up inside him, fighting to get out, to be unleashed on the cruel world around him.

Grace hasn't forgotten, he knows that, but he can see she isn't prepared to spend time stressing about something that hasn't, and indeed may not, happen. "No," is all she answers as he shifts the car into gear and prepares to head for home, but she reaches out and rests a comforting hand on his leg.

"Do we need anything?" he asks a moment later, running though a mental list of the contents of the fridge as he navigates the car park, wonders whether to turn right or left.

"No, why?" she replies. "I got everything a couple of days ago." Thank heavens for grocery chains that deliver, he muses. Internet shopping has become an inordinately useful convenience in the last few months, saving them precious time and energy.

"Just checking before we get home. I really don't want to have to go out again until I absolutely need to." He glances briefly sideways at her, flashing that bold grin of his that she's so fond of. Sadly though, he's not offering any promises of the kind that he knows they're both wishing he was. It doesn't stop her holding his gaze though, as the car rolls to a stop again, nose facing out onto the road, indicator light flickering. He finds a bright spark of mischief in those blue eyes, as mysterious as they are in the combination of the car's shadows and the light of the streetlamp just feet away from them. A spark of mischief, a lot of unmasked want, and a quiet hint of hope stare back at him, causing an immediate reaction.

A wave of heated desire rushes through him, tugs dangerously at his equilibrium. The car is warming up nicely, and her cheek is smooth and soft under his fingertips, her eyes closing slightly under his touch. That he wants her, that they want each other, has never been in doubt. At times the frustration for both of them is so keen it's almost unbearable, and sometimes Boyd finds himself darkly wondering if they are cursed, if the years of friendship that never went anywhere are indicative, that what they have just isn't meant to be. But then that cold, brutally rational side of him lists the exhaustive array of complications they – she – have been through in the last few months, and reminds him that the very fact that he gets to hold her in his arms each morning as he wakes is something of a miracle in and of itself, that the journey to this point has been long and hard, but seems to be easing just a little, offering just the tiniest morsel of hope.

Gazing at her now, at the way she's reacting to his touch and actively seeking more of it, leaning towards him in search of a kiss, an embrace, he can see more of that hope. Can see hints of their joint, healthy future. The gap between them closes further and he feels his heartrate pick up in anticipation, knowing the closer contact that will leave them both heady with the scent of each other, the taste of each other on their lips and the promises left by hands that wander over the impenetrable thickness of the necessary winter clothing.

The moment dies away though, before it even has the chance to grow and arc into something else, something more. A deep, rattling cough takes over instead, making her shoulders shake with the effort it takes out of her and her breath catch wheezily in her chest. He checks the heater again as a reflex and rubs a hand slowly, soothingly over Grace's back as she leans forward and fights for control of her body, illness, for the moment, still firmly in command.

…

Dinner is done and they are just heading for Boyd's favourite time of day – the sofa, a little evening television or perhaps a film, and, in his and Freyja's case, a mad half an hour's playtime – when the doorbell rings. They share a glance, raised eyebrow expressions mirroring each other; they rarely get visitors, and never at this time of day. Wondering who or what it could possibly be, Boyd ambles lazily behind, trailing a scraggly bit of string tauntingly from one hand as Grace changes direction and heads back out of the room.

Their mystery guest turns out to be Eve, bundled up in a thick coat against the lazy white flakes that are drifting in the air and attempting, thus far unsuccessfully, to stick to the ground. "I'm sorry," she apologises, as soon as the doors opens, "I'm on my way to see my great-aunt in Whitby, but I wanted to say Merry Christmas first."

"Come in," smiles Grace, clearly delighted to see her. "It's freezing outside."

"No kidding," grimaces Eve, "you should have seen the body I dug up earlier. He'd make an igloo look warm."

Grace shivers at the thought and Eve grins, quickly recounting the less gory particulars.

Listening to the news of what is potentially another lead to chase up after the holidays, Boyd leans against the living room doorway, wiggling the string and trying to entice Freyja into playing with him. Instead the cat remains where she is, fur bristling in irritation as she glares at Eve, tail flicking angrily to and fro. As Eve takes a step forward, shrugging out of her coat, the cat lets out a long, low warning growl, the sound deep and menacing in the back of her throat.

Startled, Grace looks at her normally placid, affectionate feline. "Hey, what's this? She's never done that before," she says, surprised.

"She has," Boyd and Eve reply simultaneously. Grace stares at them both.

"She _really_ didn't like me processing her for evidence," explains Eve. "Clearly she hasn't forgotten. Or forgiven."

"She's forgiven _me_ ," grins Boyd, entirely smug as his watches his pet advancing slowly on the pathologist, pointy, bright white teeth visibly on display. Supressing a laugh, he reaches down and plucks the cat from the ground before she can lay a claw on Eve, tucking her firmly under his arm and reaching with his free hand to tickle her under her chin. Slowly the threatening growl relaxes into a content purr as Freyja's front paws wrap possessively around his wrist, despite the fact that her pale green eyes remain resolutely fixed on Eve, watching warily.

"I was very gentle," complains Eve, and Boyd just laughs, waving the pair of them off to sit down, promising coffee for Eve and tea for Grace. If she thinks anything of Boyd's show of domesticity, Eve says nothing. Pondering what might be running through that cool, analytical mind as he moves into the kitchen and puts the kettle on, Boyd decides that he simply doesn't care, choosing instead to ply the cat with treats in return for getting her to roll over so he can scratch her belly, knowing full well Grace would accuse him of spoiling her if she caught him. Whatever amusement Eve may find in his quiet, peaceful home life, he knows it is far overshadowed by how much she cares about them both, and Grace in particular.

When he returns with the promised drinks, Eve has settled in an armchair and Grace is curled deep into the thick cushions of the sofa, leaning against the arm as she drapes her heavy blanket across her legs.

"Still cold?" asks Eve, taking the offered mug from him and murmuring her thanks.

Grace grimaces. "All the time," she acknowledges. "It's very… wearing."

"Are you feeling any better?" Eve's concern is evident. It has been to Boyd for months now, ever since that moment up in the clock tower when he saw a hint of real fear amongst the distress in her eyes. She hides it well from others, but in recent weeks she's been far more open with him – to the point where they have had several mutually supportive conversations. Friends almost immediately since the start of the pathologist's tenure with the CCU, Eve and Grace are very close now, he knows, and Boyd is well aware that the memory of Grace collapsing into her arms is not something Eve is going to forget in a hurry.

"I have a little more energy," muses Grace, but the statement is tempered by a yawn that escapes before she can suppress it. They laugh anyway, and the sound is rich and comforting as it fills the room. An uplifting reassurance.

"And a cold," observes Eve as Grace sneezes and reaches for a tissue.

"I'd far rather hear about your plans for the holidays," Grace tells her, making Eve smile. It's not a dismissal of concern, Boyd knows that, and Eve knows it, too. Grace is simply tired of the way the state of her health dominates not only her life but the majority of all the conversations she engages in.

"Ah, well," grins Eve, relaxing comfortably back into her chair. "My great-aunt – she's quite something."

"Do tell," urges Boyd, settling himself back down and taking a deep sip of coffee.

"She's a medium," Eve explains, hiding a grin.

"Seriously?" Boyd is equal parts entertained by the idea, sceptically disbelieving and suddenly far more curious about his colleague's personal life than he was moments before.

"Seriously!" confirms Eve. "She never could understand how I could be so dedicated to science and empirical fact. Though the fact that I grew up to be a pathologist could well be attributed to the sheer amount of time I spent in graveyards with her as a child."

"So you've always been fascinated by death," Grace muses idly, her mind clearly ticking away, still capable of analysing despite her exhaustion.

"I suppose," shrugs Eve. "She gave me Mr. Bones as a tenth birthday present, and the next day I went straight to the library after school to get a book on anatomy. I was one of those kids who had to know everything. Had to understand how and why everything worked."

"Same here," admits Grace, and the two women share a grin as Boyd groans and rolls his eyes.

"Don't look at me," he tells them bluntly when they both turn their eyes in his direction. "I was far too interested in sports and trying to keep my sister out of the tree house at the bottom of the garden to be bothered asking endless questions." The laughter is back, all three of them joining in this time and Freyja pauses to look around in interest before crawling into Grace's lap and sprawling atop the blanket, one wary eye still fixed on Eve.

The conversation flows easily and enjoyably, and Boyd can't help but see that Eve notices exactly how relaxed and calm he is in such an everyday domestic setting. There is no trace of his infamously explosive temper and prickly impatience as he sits comfortably beside Grace, he knows, one hand seemingly unconsciously resting gently on her sock-clad foot where it is sticking out from under the blanket, his thumb tenderly stroking across the sole, and he wonders how Eve perceives that.

He wonders what she's thinking, too, what she sees when she watches the two of them with one another. Does she think they look good together? That they complement each other? Can she read the ever-present edge of tension and constant worry in him, even when he is relaxed and comfortable in what he now thinks of as his home? He knows she knows how much he cares for Grace, how much he loves her, because in a moment of weakness and utter desperation he told her, but can she see that in how they are together in moments like these?

He wonders also why it is that he's asking himself these things, why her opinion matters so much. What is it about Eve that makes her opinion so important to him when his normal reaction is to simply ignore or dismiss the attitudes and judgements of those around him? Is it because he likes her and enjoys her company? Because he trusts her? Or is it solely down to the fact that she's the only one who knows, who has been witness? He becomes so lost in his thoughts that he loses all track of their conversation, and when the doorbell rings for the second time that evening he's thoroughly startled. Boyd puts aside his mug and stands to investigate as Eve moves to get up, saying, "I should go; I'm interrupting your evening."

"Nonsense," replies Grace, leaning further back into the cushions as she gently strokes Freyja's ears. "We're not expecting anyone; it's probably just carol singers or something. And I'm so glad you're here."


	4. Chapter 4

Out in the hall Boyd opens the door to a tall man with striking blue eyes and dark brown, fiercely unruly hair cropped short in a military cut. He is good-looking in an eye-catching sort of way; dark, chiselled features, long, muscular lines and an intelligent, level gaze. Dressed simply, but very well, he looks familiar, though Boyd is sure he's never met him before. The man, in his late thirties or early forties by Boyd's estimate, is clearly not expecting to see him standing there and they both remain silent for a moment, eyeing each other with a mix of curiosity and suspicion that immediately sets off Boyd's hard earned policing instincts.

"Can I help you?" he asks eventually, both of them still casually but carefully observing each other.

The younger man extends his hand. "Doctor Alexander Foley."

They shake, and understanding dawns. "Grace's nephew," nods Boyd, finally able to place him. And his eyes.

"Indeed."

"Peter Boyd," he introduces himself as he steps back to wave the other man inside.

"Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd?"

"Yes," he answers, wondering what Grace may have said about him.

"Nice to meet you," is the polite response, and Boyd returns the sentiment. He has heard quite a bit about this man, who is Grace's closest living relative, in the last few months. The child of Grace's older brother, an RAF pilot who died in the Falklands War when his son was only fifteen, Alexander spent a lot of time with Grace while he was growing up, before joining the army and becoming a surgeon.

Boyd is still considering their latest guest when Alexander, now inside with the door firmly closed against the elements behind him, shifts slightly on his feet and asks, "Is my aunt here, Detective Superintendent?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes. She is. And it's just Peter," he offers, abruptly back in the present, "Or Boyd." The younger man smiles, and it's so easy and relaxed, and so like Grace that Boyd finds himself smiling in response.

"Alex," he returns, and at Boyd's nod of thanks the pair of them make their way to the living room.

…

Grace looks up from her conversation with Eve as Boyd reappears, and he immediately notices the way she seems to stop breathing for a moment, uncharacteristically thrown completely off balance as she sees who he has brought with him.

Alex's bright smile freezes on his face and his cheerful exclamation of, "Merry Christmas Auntie Gr–" dies on his lips as he gets a proper look at her. Beside him, Boyd knows what he's seeing.

Though she looks good today, anyone who knows her well and hasn't seen her in the last six months would note the changes easily. She's extremely pale, she's lost weight and she appears quite fragile. She looks ill, there's no denying it. And the scarf – a cheerful Christmassy green that's artfully wrapped around her head – is a dead giveaway.

"Alex!" Grace's stunned expression shifts slightly as she recovers herself, but not before she inadvertently shows Boyd a flicker of emotion that seems to be caught somewhere between guilt and delight. Guilt, Boyd suspects, because she deliberately hasn't told her nephew about her ill-health, and delight because he knows she absolutely wasn't expecting to see him until at least the end of April. "What are you doing here?" she asks as Alex visibly tries to shrug off his shock before crossing the room to the sofa and leaning down to hug her.

"It's Christmas Eve, Auntie Grace," he replies, as if that should explain everything. Stepping back, he's still staring at her. "I always come and see you on Christmas Eve."

"I know that," she says with an affectionate smile, "but you said in your last email you would be in Afghanistan for months yet."

Alex shrugs. "Change of plan," he tells her, relaxing slightly. "I just follow orders. I'm not going to complain though."

Across the room, Eve again starts to stand. Freyja, one eye still on the scientist even as she lounges in Grace's lap, growls. Grace runs a soothing hand down the grumbling cat's spine and rubs her ears, gently admonishing her. Shaking her head at Eve, she looks up at her nephew again.

"Alex, this is Doctor Eve Lockhart. Eve, this is my nephew Doctor Alexander Foley," she introduces, as Alex turns and Eve stands to shake his hand.

Intrigued, Boyd observes the way Grace watches as their two guests hold each other's gazes for a second too long – easily spotting the way curious interest flares in her eyes. He turns his own gaze back to Alex and Eve; they are about the same age, he estimates, and he knows from what Grace has told him that Alex is unmarried. Both medical doctors, though admittedly in very different fields, and both highly committed to their work – glancing back at her again he can see the spark of realisation in Grace's eyes, suddenly knows exactly what she's thinking, and he has to work hard to keep an amused smirk from breaking out on his face. Especially when he picks up on the way Alex, despite his still apparent shock, is taking notice of Eve.

The kind of notice that includes the way her jeans hug her hips, and how the form-fitting deep blue sweater she's wearing wraps around every curve and looks stunning against her pale skin, especially with her hair unrestrained and cascading down her back in a long, thick river. Pressing his lips together, Boyd schools his features and settles back next to Grace who is hiding her own smirk by keeping her eyes firmly on Freyja, who is still grumbling half-heartedly in the back of her throat. Gradually the cat relaxes as Eve sits back down and Alex takes the other chair, and Boyd can see the other man's mind is clearly churning with the sudden onslaught of information the last few minutes have unloaded on him, but he seems to be quickly and easily adapting to the circumstances. Conversation starts to flow again, and before long the entire group becomes embroiled in a discussion about science, medicine, and cold cases.

It's very pleasant company for all of them, and the evening passes quickly without any of them realising the time. Periodically Boyd feels the weight of Alex's curious gaze questing over him and he wonders what Grace has told her nephew. Probably nothing, is his eventual assumption. One of the first things they agreed on was that their private life was just that, and that for the time being the fewer people who knew the better. He's sure she's extended that to include the few family members she has, just as he has done.

He keeps an alert, watchful eye on her as he muses – part from habit, and part out of growing concern, because he can tell something is upsetting her, distressing her. She's hiding it very well and the others can't see it, but they don't know her like he does. It's not just the fact that she's about to collapse from exhaustion either, he thinks as he glances at the clock and, rather regrettably, comes to the conclusion that as entertaining and enjoyable as the evening has been, and despite how happy Grace seems, he's going to have to bring it to a close fairly soon.

Getting to his feet he gathers the now empty mugs and makes his way out of the room, raising a curious, questioning eyebrow at Eve when she follows him.

"I wanted to give Alex a chance to talk to Grace in private," she shrugs, leaning against the counter as he puts the mugs in the sink and turns on the hot tap. "I got the distinct impression she hasn't told him about her… health."

Boyd nods and absently reaches for the Fairy Liquid. "Me too," he agrees.

"Or you," adds Eve, picking up the tea towel and moving closer as he washes and rinses.

Boyd laughs, both because he thinks she's right and because of her refreshing bluntness. He's always liked that about her. "I don't know what she's told him," he admits. "Very few people know, and most of them are medical personnel."

"Probably wise," Eve comments, but says nothing more as they continue with their task. Then, abruptly, as she sets the final mug, now dry, down on the counter, she declares, "Something's bothering her."

Boyd eyes her steadily, his expression thoughtful. So he wasn't the only one who saw that after all. He should have known really, that Eve would pick up on it, especially given that she and Grace are as thick as thieves these days. "I noticed," he nods.

"Good," Eve replies, and then she lets it go, clearly trusting him to do whatever needs doing. That's another thing he likes about her; her ability to say what needs to be said and nothing more.

She surprises him though, catching him off guard with her sudden comment of, "You look good together."

"What?"

Leaning back against the counter, Eve folds her arms and sighs softly, perhaps even a touch wistfully. "You and Grace – you look good together. I'm happy for you."

He eyes her suspiciously, wondering for a moment if there is some kind of hidden message here, some implicit warning that he isn't picking up on. Searching Eve's face though, he finds nothing in her expression to indicate anything of the sort. Just a quiet honesty that urges him to offer a muted, but sincere, "Thank you," in return.

There's something about her, he thinks, something that goes a long way beyond the brilliant, geeky scientist and the calm, controlled, confident character. She cares, he realises, as a sudden urge to sit down and start talking grips him. She really, truly cares – there's nothing insincere about her at all. He could unburden his soul to Eve and she wouldn't bat an eyelid. She'd sit and listen and quietly offer whatever she could in the way of simple, unadorned reassurance and support. She's very like Grace in that way, and he thinks he's really starting to understand why it is that the two of them are so very close now.

It would be so easy, he muses, to sit down at the tiny kitchen table and tell her how afraid he is, how many nights he's spent lying awake watching Grace sleep and wondering if he's running out of time with her. If their chance at forever is going to be stripped from him – from _them_ – before he even gets the opportunity to start fulfilling the promise he made to her in that depressingly gloomy hospital room so many months ago now.

Eve is watching him, a tiny hint of a frown in her eyes as she sees the flickering emotion on his face and he immediately shuts down any hint of weakness, any trace of the desire to tell her everything, unconsciously straightening up and supressing his thoughts as he does so. He can't tell her – he just can't. It's a stupid thing, really, and Boyd knows it, but he feels as though saying it out loud would make it true, make it that much more likely to happen.

Yet the thought that he was actually contemplating sharing his thoughts and feelings makes him smile wryly in fond amusement as a sudden flash of self-awareness descends upon him. Clearly living with Grace has had more of an effect on him than he's thus far realised. That she's good for him, he knows, and has known without a shadow of a doubt for a long time, but just how much he's changed – on a personal level, at least, if not a professional one – he hasn't considered until now. It's true though, that over the weeks and months of illness he has done most of the talking, has shared more with her in quiet, sleepy evenings tucked together on the sofa than he has ever spoken of before. The peaceful comfort of lying with her curled against him is probably the farthest thing from what his employees and acquaintances would believe him capable of, but it has done more for him emotionally, for his heart and his sanity, than he has the ability to express to anyone.

There are some things, however, that he has never shared. Secrets and fears that he should, but simply doesn't know how to, or is instead desperately afraid of admitting. The half-acknowledged and unspoken thoughts and fears that lurk in the dark corners of his mind, rearing their ugly, demanding heads so often they threaten to consume him, are always there, locked in a battle of wills with his protective nature as he tries desperately to force them back and concentrate on the here and now, the living, breathing proof of life before him.

Grace is all that matters, and the desire to protect her has surpassed anything he has ever known before, something he has spent ample time pondering the root cause of. He suspects it has a lot to do with all the pain and heartbreak of loss and failure in his life so far, and the desperate need to keep anything like it from ever happening again. He imagines that's something she'd tell him too, if he were to ask. Imagines there would be a lot she could enlighten him about on the subject, much of it he likely wouldn't be too keen on hearing.

Eve's voice pulls him out of his thoughts again, asking if they have any plans for Christmas.

Boyd shakes his head, gaze falling on the slightly withered plant resting in the middle of the tiny kitchen table. "No," he replies, reaching for a glass and filling it with water. The living room door is only pulled to, not completely shut, and though they cannot hear the conversation taking place inside, neither of them misses the fresh sounds of coughing and sneezing. "Another bug… antibiotics…" he sighs, steadily tipping the glass and pouring water into the pot, soaking the parched soil and hoping it'll be enough to revive the shrivelled leaves. "She's going to be feeling pretty rubbish for the next few days, so…"

He doesn't need to say it – they both know how hard the cold will hit, how tired and worn-down Grace already is. Movement by the door saves them from further awkward conversation, makes them both look down as Freyja wanders in and heads straight for her water dish, taking a few dainty laps of the cool liquid before sitting down to delicately wash her paws. Only then does she turn and head back the way she came, pausing to take a swipe at Eve's ankle, claws firmly extended, ears flat against her head and a low, warning hiss accompanying the flash of long, sharp white fangs.

Eve leaps sideways with remarkable agility, neatly avoiding the assault. "Nice try," she informs the cat tartly.

" _Freyja_ ," warns Boyd, his tone sending a clear message. The stubborn feline turns, parking her behind on the floor once again, paws neatly arranged, tail tucked sweetly around them, and looks up at him, her eyes big and round and innocent, cutting effortlessly through his anger.

Eve snorts indelicately. "Puss in Boots," she mutters, shaking her head over the display.

"What?" asks Boyd, frowning at the cat, but still reaching down to pick her up, hoping to avoid another attack.

"Puss in Boots… you know, from Shrek...?" Eve elaborates.

He shakes his head, still not following. "What's a Shrek?"

"Never mind," sighs Eve, clearly sensing a lost cause. She shifts her gaze to the cat now tucked under his arm again. "Are you ever going to forgive me, hmm?" she asks, tentatively offering her fingers to be sniffed. The claws are there in a flash, and she only just yanks her hand back in time.

"I think that's a no," Boyd replies, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smirk.

"Well then, I'll take that as my cue to leave – it's getting late anyway, and I have a long drive ahead of me."

"Be careful, okay? Especially if this snow keeps coming down."

Eve raises an eyebrow at him. "Steady, Boyd," she warns him, an impish grin growing across her entire face, "That's getting frighteningly close to admitting you care."

He laughs, eyes bright and teasing. "No, I just don't want to have to find a new pathologist."

Eve grins, shaking her head. "Have a good Christmas, Eve," he tells her, turning to give her a one armed hug, keeping the protesting Freyja firmly on the other side of his body.

The levity vanishes, though, as Eve's voice takes on a far softer tone. "You, too. Look after her."

He doesn't have to think about his answer. Not even for a moment. "Always, Eve. Always."

…

About to close the door behind the departing guests, Boyd pauses a moment and watches the way Alex walks Eve to her car, chatting easily with her and standing just a little bit closer than might normally be expected as a flurry of snowflakes continue to swirl in the air around them, despite not managing to settle into anything more than the lightest of dustings on the ground. The two doctors pause by the kerb, and, hearing Eve's laughter in accompaniment to the sudden grin he sees on Alex's face, Boyd purses his lips a fraction in speculation and then quietly locks up for the night, sliding the deadbolt safely home and putting the keys in the small green ceramic dish on the hall table.

Somehow he's not surprised to find Grace standing behind the armchair, one hand gripping the back of it in a white knuckled attempt to keep her balance as she peers out through the drapes and into the street beyond.

"Curtain-twitcher," he teases, keeping his voice light even as his heart clenches at the sight of her arm trembling as she uses the chair and the windowsill to keep herself upright.

"Sshh," is the immediate, impatient reply as she concentrates on peering around the curtains.

"They can't hear you, you know," he breathes into her ear as he eases up behind her and cranes his neck to look out over her shoulder at the pair chatting in the street. It takes a couple of minutes of standing very still and silently watching but then, just as he is beginning to feel like some sort of uncomfortable combination of eerie stalker and worried parent watching his child go off on a first date, Alex and Eve clearly exchange phone numbers before getting into their respective vehicles and driving away into the night.

"I knew it," murmurs Grace, an excited note of triumph in her voice. Stepping back she lets go of the curtains and turns to face him, allowing him to clearly see that same excitement gleaming in her eyes. He shakes his head in fond amusement, and holds his arms out to her in silent request. She steps willingly into them, and he folds her tightly against him, his arms snaking around her as he lowers his head to rest against hers, closing his eyes to drink in the pleasure of the closeness of their bodies, the reassuring feel of her held snugly against him.

Mind idly wandering as he considers what he has just seen, he finds himself asking, "You think they'll go out?"

Grace is quiet for a moment, her head resting comfortably on his chest and he can almost feel her brain ticking away. "Maybe," she says at last, shuffling her feet as she shifts slightly, clearly uncomfortable. Boyd automatically moves in response, perching on the edge of the armchair and pulling her closer, subtly encouraging her to rest more of her weight against his own body to take the stress off her back, which he's sure must be aching fiercely now, given the way she's been propped up with additional pillows all evening, and by the way she was stood at the window, leaning heavily on the sill. "I hope so. They'd be very well-suited, I think. Good together, maybe. And Eve deserves someone who would…" she trails off, and this time he knows her shudders have nothing to do with how cold she feels.

Unwelcome images of Stefan flood Boyd's mind and he fights back a lingering prickle of fear as he recalls that whole unfortunate episode, remembers finding Eve in that abandoned hospital, remembers the state she was in. "She deserves to find some happiness," he muses, the emotional impact that betrayal and loss of judgment had on Eve running through his mind. Some scars, he knows only too well, run far deeper than can be seen, and in Eve's case, he's sure that the fallout from Stefan's actions has left more of a mark than she'd ever share with him. He wonders if she's confided in Grace, imagines, given the closeness of the pair, that she has, and for a moment he wants to ask, just to reassure himself, but he doesn't. Privacy is a value he and Eve both prize; he has no right, or desire, to probe any further into her personal life than he needs to.

Grace slides her arms around his neck, pulling him out of his thoughts and back to the present. As she tilts her head back to gaze up at him his eyes meet hers once more, noting how her expression softens as she watches him. She's calm and happy, and her eyes tell him that, even as he also sees the ragged exhaustion there, and the beginning haze of illness, fever. Tilting his head he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, noting another increase in the temperature of her skin even as she shivers in his arms. There's no doubt about it, Boyd thinks, supressing a resigned sigh, she's definitely going to end up sleeping through most of Christmas.

In need of a little reassurance, he slides his fingers beneath the hem of her thick sweater, his thumb brushing unhurriedly along her lower back, seeking the comfort and warmth of her skin against his. She leans closer, brushing her lips against his cheek. She's trying to spare him from catching her cold, he knows, but in that moment he finds he cares very little about his own immune system.

Holding her firmly with one arm, he lets the other wander up to cup her jaw, the very tips of his fingers trailing a delicate path over her skin before he leans close enough for their lips to meet in a kiss that is long and slow, tempered by her exhaustion and his caution, but still filled with fleeting hints of passion and a lot of raw, quiet love. They draw apart slowly; Grace's eyes are closed and she's swaying on her feet, her body pressed against his out of necessity rather than desire.

"Come on," he sighs, his voice laden with regret. "It's well past time to call it a day."

She merely nods and hums in agreement, clinging tightly to his arm as they begin to make their way upstairs. He briefly debates the wisdom of asking her to talk to him, to tell him what it is that's shadowed her evening, but the glowing happiness of the last few minutes stops him, and so too does the harshly practical reality that reminds him, as her foot misses the first step and she has to pause to concentrate fiercely on her every movement, that she's in no fit state to be doing anything other than crawling into bed to sleep for a long, long time.

"Must you be so stubborn?" he asks, already knowing the answer as he wraps an arm firmly around her waist, supporting at least half of her weight as she determinedly, if very slowly, forces herself to climb the stairs under her own steam.

The reply is obscured by a wheezy cough, but is still audible. "If you don't already know the answer to that…" They pause halfway up the flight while she tries to summon some last, lingering scrap of energy.

"Then there's no hope for me?" he suggests, stooping a little to press an affectionate kiss of encouragement against her temple.

Grace laughs softly, letting go of the banister and swaying alarmingly as she pulls a tissue from her pocket to blow her nose. "Something like that, yes."

Shifting to stand on the step below her, Boyd adjusts and tightens his grip, holding her close against his own well braced body as he tries not to give any sign that the way she's trembling so badly makes a cold shiver run down his spine. "Seven more steps," he murmurs, running a soothing hand up and down her arm, feeling the unmistakable quiver of muscles that are well and truly fatigued. They make it only another two before she groans quietly in resignation.

"Peter…" There's defeat in her tone, and just the tiniest hint of anxiety.

Turning her carefully to face him he brushes his lips against her forehead, lets his fingers trail a tender caress against her cheek. "It's okay, I've got you." She almost melts against him, her legs giving way beneath her as his muscles flex, lifting and holding her snugly, safely against him. "You should have gone to bed hours ago."

"I know," the words are slurred and she's limp, almost insensible in his arms. "But it's Christmas Eve and I –"

Mid-sentence she just fades out, simply falling asleep in his arms halfway up the stairs. "Wanted to see everyone," he finishes for her, pausing to rest his head against hers in a moment of quiet resignation, before he squares his shoulders and silently carries her up the remaining steps to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Whether he has actually heard something or he's just developed the kind of instincts that are unconsciously hyper-alert where she is concerned he doesn't know, but when he wakes Boyd is instantly aware that something is amiss, that something is not as it should be. Still foggy with dreams and sleep-blind in the dark, he automatically reaches for her, his touch by far the most reliable and unclouded sense. He finds nothing but cool sheets on her side of the bed and his heart immediately begins to race, to pound heavily, almost painfully in his chest. Instinctively he freezes, listening hard for any discernible sound as his mind clears and his thoughts begin to catch up with reality.

His ears pick up nothing; not the sound of her breathing, or her movements anywhere in the house. The cold sheets make him wonder how long she's been missing, and why – as exhausted as she is there cannot be a good reason for her to be awake, to be up and about. Throwing the quilt aside he's on his feet in an instant and tugging on the thick dressing gown slung across the corner chair. His mind still a little hazy and not helped by the pitch blackness, he walks into the edge of the bedstead and almost stumbles, breath hissing out in a pained rush before he finally gets his bearings and manages to successfully navigate his way out of the room.

Pausing in the doorway, he waits for any sensory feedback to reach him, but there is nothing beyond the sounds of a still, slumbering house. There don't appear to be any lights on anywhere and so he immediately reaches for the hall switch, illuminating the small space to spare himself the pain of colliding with anything else, or worse, a swift fall down the narrow stairs. The bathroom door is pushed to and he edges closer, frowning at the inconsistency – they always leave the door open at bedtime because it has a tendency to creak loudly and obnoxiously in the quiet midnight hours. It's not until he is right outside, though, that he hears a strangely muffled sound from within.

Edging closer, his eyes finally adjusting to the gloom even as his skin continues to burn under what feels like the pressure of millions of hypersensitive, prickly nerve endings, he finds her; huddled on the floor, leaning against the corner made by the wall and the bath, and clutching a very soggy and rapidly disintegrating tissue in her hand. The light from the hallway is enough to show him her eyes are red raw with the evidence of her distress, and that she's wrapped in a blanket, evidently having been unable to find her own dressing gown in the dark.

He pauses where he is, resting one hand firmly on the doorframe, in part to stop himself from walking into it, but also to maintain some sense of emotional grounding as he fights back the sudden rising tide of unexplained anger and irritation, his exhausted mind wondering what the hell she is doing hiding in the bathroom and apparently sobbing her heart out in the middle of the bloody night. Breathing slowly and deeply, Boyd clings tenaciously to what, at the moment, feels far too much like the very last threadbare remnants of his patience, and waits for his emotional equilibrium to settle, his fingers cramping horribly and painfully as his grip on the carved wood increases.

Clarity comes with equilibrium, and with it the knowledge and understanding that whatever is occurring right now, it is significant. This – whatever it is – has never happened before, and it's so far out of character for Grace that he feels a genuine stab of fear that it takes a lot of effort to rein in and seize control of.

While he waits he takes the time to look at her, to study her carefully. He looks not just at the features and the curves, not just for the symptoms and the effects he is so used to seeing and searching and checking for on a daily basis, but at her. All of her. For a few, long seconds he studies every inch of her with a quiet, steady intensity, and what he sees is not only unbelievably heart-breaking, but also gut-wrenchingly terrifying as well.

She looks… breakable. Incredibly fragile, actually. And not just in the thoroughly beaten-down and ground-up physical way he has become so unhappily accustomed to. She looks as though she has finally reached the precipice, the edge from which she might just be about to fall. As though that indomitable spirit has finally been broken.

Fearful, and thoroughly alarmed, but sure of himself now, he calls out to her, his voice as light and soft as he can make it in the heavy stillness of the night. "Grace?" She still flinches slightly, but looks up at him anyway. Her eyes are blurred with a river of hot, unrelenting tears, and her hands are clenched, as though to maintain a last, desperate grip on the surging, overpowering emotions that are quite clearly beyond her control.

Moving further into the room, he slowly lowers himself to sit beside her, the cold, hard ceramic of the tiles a discomfort against his back that he ignores. "Talk to me," he urges quietly, "tell me what's going on."

She looks away – actually hides her face from him, her body curling tighter into a tiny huddle beneath the blanket. Not, though, before he sees the flash of fear in her eyes, the anxiety that seems to have a grip on her entire body. For a moment he's simply too stunned by her actions to react – never, not even once, has he known her to shy away from him, to hide from him, and for one long, anguished moment it hurts as fiercely as a dagger to the abdomen or a blow to the face. But then, even as his heart clenches in fear, rationality reasserts itself and he reaches out to take her hand, establishing a physical bond between them purely for the reassurance it offers; both his, and hers.

There's no trace of that fear in his voice when he speaks. His tone is as deliberately low and neutral as he can make it as he questioningly repeats her name, hoping to lure her into answering. "Grace?"

It takes a few agonisingly long moments, and a lot of sniffing and nose blowing, but eventually she replies with a weak, though still firmly resolute, "I'm fine. It's nothing – I'm just not feeling very well."

Gritty determination. It's one of the things Boyd loves so much about her. Not tonight, however. Tonight he is too tired and too worried, and though the very last thing he wants to do is clash with her, to do battle with her, he will if he has to. And he knows that in this case, simply because of the state she is in, his own steely resolve will win out. Eventually.

"Bollocks," he tells her, still entirely calm. "Would you care to try again?"

She looks up, eyes flinty as they glare furiously back at him and he's slightly comforted by the sight of what he's sure is a spark of genuine rage in her. "No!" A hint of stinging venom is layered into her voice now, a trace of real simmering anger. It's just a tiny hint, but somehow he instinctively knows that there is more to come.

He's right.

Trying for a gentle, understanding reassurance, he tries to head it off as he says, "You know, Grace, you don't have to be strong all the time. It's okay to just stop and say you need help, or that you need someone else to be strong for you."

Even as he speaks he can see the shift in her eyes, watches as the sparks instantly roar into a blazing inferno.

"It _isn't_ ," she bites back at him, the tension in her suddenly erupting with a vehemence that genuinely startles him. "It isn't fine _. Nothing_ is _fine_." She trails off just as abruptly, her hands trembling as she yanks the blanket closer around her body, and for one brief moment he's thrust decades back in time to a school visit to a zoo where he watched a frightened, threatened turtle vanish in on itself, retreating inside the safety of its shell for protection. His eyes show him a scene exactly like that now, as she folds in on herself, her breathing heavy and uneven with the effort of her outburst, and despite the bristling ferocity still visible in her more tears well in her eyes. "God, I'm just so _angry_!"

"I think you have a right to be," he replies, carefully.

It's the wrong thing to say, he can tell, because despite his best intentions her rage flares immediately back into life. "No! No I don't. It's irrational, it's… _ridiculous!_ I'm _angry_ that I can't do anything. I'm _angry_ that I feel so dreadful all the time. I'm _angry_ that I'm so weak I can't even make it up the bloody stairs by myself – that you have to keep picking up the pieces. I'm _angry_ that I can't manage on my own and that I feel so bloody _useless_."

And there it is, thinks Boyd, spotting immediately what she's really angry about. Grace is – has always been – fiercely independent, has always relied on herself and no one else to get what she wanted, how she wanted. Only this time she can't. He doesn't take her words as an insult – even in his sleep-deprived state he knows it's not intended that way – but he has no clue what to say to comfort her, no idea what would sound in any way meaningful to him if their situations were reversed.

Her frustration is so palpable in the air between them he thinks he could breathe it in if he tried, thinks it must surely be a tangible thing. "I'm tired of being tired." Her words from yesterday echo in his ears as she continues to vent. "I'm tired of limitations. I sick of not being able to do what I want to do. I want to work! I want to go outside and sit in the park without fearing what wretched bug I might pick up next. I want to ride the bloody Tube, and drive my car. I want to walk down the street to the corner shop and buy a pint of milk without feeling like I'm going to collapse or freeze to death halfway there. I want _you_!"

Ah ha, Boyd thinks, her final statement very telling. They've been through this before, and it never gets any easier. For either of them. So many things have gone wrong since she started treatment that she's never really had any time to recover her strength, to build up her immune system and gain back the energy to do more than just survive. The odd few good days she's had here and there in no way make up for the seeming endlessness of all the pain and exhaustion of the last few months, and the longer this saga drags out the more they are both beginning to struggle with it. With the endlessness of it all, with the limitations, with the lack of opportunity and ability to explore past the boundaries illness has imposed upon her, upon them both.

There is nothing he can say that will make any of it better, and he's absolutely aware that at this moment in time, pointing out that the intimacy they have managed to build between them despite all the challenges is still a wonderful, meaningful thing, would most definitely be the wrong thing to say. So, keen as he is not to upset her any further, he simply opts to fold her into his arms and hold on firmly as the storm passes through. She trembles against him, her muscles tight with the tension of her anger, but she doesn't fight him, doesn't refuse to take what he is offering. Instead her head subsides against his chest, her tears dripping hotly onto his skin where movement has pulled his dressing gown askew.

He's never known her to cry like this, never seen her lose control of her emotions as thoroughly as she seems to have now. Her body shakes with the effort of it and her breath catches in her throat as she sobs, and, bizarrely, that only seems to infuriate her even further. " _It's not fair_ ," she explodes, the sound a lot less forceful that he's sure she intended, but clearly all she can manage given the rough, wheezing breathlessness her tears have wrought.

"It's not," he agrees, his hand running soothingly up and down her back. "It's awful, it's horrendous and it's absolutely not fair."

How many times has that very sentiment crashed around inside his own skull, agonisingly tormenting him to the point of near madness? How many hours, days and weeks has he mutinously sat and stewed over that very same thought? Too many to count, he knows. This though, this is the first time he's ever heard her voice her opinion on the matter, and that… is more than just a little bit distressing.

It's scary, too. She's held on for so long, been so strong for such a long time and through so many hurdles, but now… He doesn't know what exactly it signifies, but it can't possibly be good. Is she on the verge of giving up, he wonders, or is this just a reaction to yet another setback, the overwhelming, screaming exhaustion she refuses to acknowledge, and the extended, accumulated stress of the last few months.

When she says nothing he asks no further questions, makes no other comments. He knows her well enough to know that anything he says will provoke a further outburst, which will both do absolutely nothing to help either of them, and only tire her out further. Instead he simply stays where he is, stoically ignoring the growing ache spreading rapidly through his lower lumbar region, and holding her close, a gentle hand rubbing soothing lengths up and down her back as Grace cries herself out. It takes a long, long time, and initially he tries to ignore the alarming way her shoulders shake and her breathing comes in gasps and wheezes, but eventually he finds himself drawn in to the strange, unsteady rhythm of it, concentrating intently as she slowly starts to calm.

She stays right where she is, long after the tears dry and her muscles ease and her lungs pick up their regular pattern. The wheezing stays as well, and he focuses on that, on the eerie way it makes air crackle in her chest, the way her throat creaks and whistles as oxygen filters in and out of her body. Her skin, where it presses against his, is too hot, riddled with the fever that is taking hold with abandon, but despite the practicalities of the idea, he instinctively knows that suggesting to Grace that they relocate back to the bedroom is not a good idea. And though he isn't much given to believing or even contemplating that sort of thing, he also suspects that the conversation they are about to have is far better not occurring in such a quiet sanctuary.

She is silent for so long that he begins to wonder if he has misjudged the signs and she has simply fallen asleep in his arms, but then she moves, rubs a hand across her face. Her voice is raw as she sniffs and tries to form words. "I'm sor–" she croaks, and then coughs, once, twice, three times. He both hears and feels her struggle to clear her throat and speak again, but the coughing forcibly takes over instead, an endless wave than leaves her breathless and panting, gasping for air as her eyes water and her nose streams.

There's a glass beside the sink – he fills it and lifts her easily, sits her on the edge of the bath and holds the water to her lips when her hands tremble too badly to hold it steady herself.

"Slow breaths," he coaches softly, one hand cradling the side of her face as he crouches beside her, his body steadying hers. It helps, but not much. "I'll fetch the cough stuff," he murmurs, helping her to the floor again, because as unstable and shaky as she is, there's no way he's leaving her balanced so precariously. He's about to turn and run downstairs when her fingers catch his, making him stop and stare for a second. And then it's not the defeated hunch of her body that smacks straight into his weary heart and tears at him, or the way her eyes are closed in utter exhaustion, but the loving, thankful squeeze of her fingers against his that's so fleeting and weakened it's barely recognisable. It lasts just a second, and then her hand drops away as an almighty sneeze makes her lurch and curl in on herself, shivering. Teeth clenched to stop himself swearing in frustration and anger, and shoulders straining from the effort it takes to hold himself together, he hurries from the room.

…

The kitchen is dark, but the hall light and the moon beyond the window are enough to let him see to rummage through the cupboards. It doesn't take long for him to find what he's looking for, but as he lifts the small glass bottle down it slips through his tired fingers and plummets toward the counter. Only the lightening-fast reactions that are partly innate, and partly developed though years of dedicated athletic training in his younger days saves it from being obliterated, and, simultaneously alarmed, stunned, and repulsed, horrified even, he pushes it aside like the proverbial hot potato and lurches back, heart hammering against his ribcage.

Where the blinding flash of fury that is mixed with so many other things he can't even name comes from, Boyd doesn't know, but it doesn't matter because instinct takes over and before he knows what he's doing, or has a chance to stop himself, he twists on the spot and lashes out, his bare fist smashing into the opposite wall.

Intense, searing pain burns up through his wrist and radiates along his arm, instantly obscuring anything else, and for a few long seconds he can do nothing but clench his teeth and wait for the agony to subside, his mind suddenly blissfully free from anything and everything that might care to trouble him as that sole sensation takes over the attention of every last neuron. How long it lasts, he has no idea, but as the pain begins to subside a little he sways on his feet, exhaustion rippling through his body, swiftly tangling and merging with the fire that is slowly letting him go.

It is tempting, oh so tempting, to hit out again. To let the physical pain once more overwhelm him, to let it clear his mind and block everything else out.

So, so tempting…

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on –"

It's been years since he used them, but the words are back in an instant, a diversion that takes off only the tiniest edge, but surprisingly helps more than he remembers. It's enough – just enough – to let him grab hold of himself, to create a point, a focus; a thing to bring him back from the edge.

"– And our little life is rounded with a sleep."

A step forward, and he's able to rest his head against the cool, hard surface of the wall. Boyd closes his eyes momentarily and clenches the fist not throbbing deeply, desperately clawing at and wrestling with the frayed and dwindling threads, the lingering, tattered remnants of his self-control.

"We are such stuff –"

They were warned about this, about the potential emotional fallout. The effects of chemo are cumulative, and there is only so much abuse the body can take before the spirit, just as thoroughly beaten as the physical shell, starts to crack. It's not logical, it doesn't conform to rhyme or reason, and it's not her. It doesn't make sense, and it won't either, he knows – they were also warned about the irrationality of it, about how out of character and not herself she might feel. It's just one of those things, unfortunately.

He's thought about for weeks now – caught himself dwelling on more and more often the further they made it through the treatment process and the more visibly battered and bruised she became. It's not just the chemo either, it's everything else that's gone along with it; all the infections, the pneumonia, the anaemia. The mounting physical onslaught that has pushed and clawed and worked its way into the cracks of her armour, determinedly attacking from every single angle. He has no idea how she's managed to withstand it up until this point – he's awed beyond words that she hasn't snapped, or lashed out, or crumbled before now.

But now that it's happened, he has no idea how to help her.

"As dreams are made on –"

The physical stuff, the difficulties that have so far manifested themselves… all of those he has been able to deal with, to help her with. All tangible, actual problems that can be treated or soothed or helped to be made better or at least more comfortable. This though…

Grace is the psychologist. Grace is the one who wades through the complexities of a mind in turmoil and helps to unpick the knots and smooth the threads. And for years he's ignored her or only listened with half an ear as she explained the hows and whys while he grumbled and groaned at her theories and suppositions, preferring instead to focus on only the solutions she offers or answers she arrives at. Which doesn't help him now.

"And our little life –"

Feeling the sting lancing through his wrist and the sullen pounding in his knuckles, his mind jumps to another topic and he wonders how many times has he vented his frustrations at work and lashed out in a professional setting. It's not a new thing – he's shouted and sworn, and been given to fits of temper throughout his career, but the current motivation behind it all, and the recently increased frequency of his outbursts, can almost all be traced back to his personal situation of late. He knows it, knows he is guilty of abusing his authority on some level, but it's been the only way that he's managed to keep it all together, the outbursts providing a much-needed release of the overwhelming mix of fear, anger, frustration and a dozen other equally complicated emotions that threaten to consume him on an almost daily basis.

"Is rounded with a sleep."

He used to take his rage and guilt out on a squash ball, the regular games played with his brother providing not only the comfort of male solidarity, but also a constructive physical release of his emotions – a therapy of sorts, Grace would say. An outlet of all the toxic things building up inside him that eventually – as they have just done – snap and burst free in a dangerous or inappropriate manner. It all seems to have fallen by the wayside though – he's been far too busy to waste precious time on the courts in recent months, and Andrew hasn't been around to hit back at him, to keep him heading in the right direction. Even the odd game here and there with Spencer has been off the cards for a long, long time now; the friendly rivalry between the two of them chiselled apart by time and circumstances until a thorny working relationship has become the best they can currently manage.

A hint of resentment bubbles inside him, and for a second he allows himself to contemplate whether he'd have kept quite so much of this ongoing nightmare to himself if Andrew had been available as a sounding board. If Andrew had been there as the big brother he's always been.

He abandons the thought, though, when, as he reaches up to rake a hand across his face, rubbing fiercely at his sore, tired eyes, he feels the tug of a spot of sticky, dried cough medicine against his skin where it has oozed from the edge of the cap and onto his fingers, and remembers exactly what he's doing standing here in the dark of the kitchen. Instantly ashamed, he straightens up and squares his shoulders – he's already taken too long to fetch the bottle as it is.

He will call his brother and apologise – make an attempt to bridge the distance. A distance that while not entirely down to him, is definitely more his fault than Andrew's. After Christmas he will meet him for a pint and tell him, talk to him. Ask him for that squash game.

Mind made up, he returns to the bathroom. His mood settles and he feels a strange, equable tranquillity settle over him; brushing aside any fear and uncertainty he feels, his focus shifts entirely to Grace and what she needs from him right now.


	6. Chapter 6

Grace is exactly where he left her, though she's doubled over and clutching her legs, knuckles white with the effort of clinging on as violent coughs and shuddering gasps tear through her chest. The blanket has fallen away, leaving the bones of her shoulders starkly visible and for a second Boyd stares, utterly transfixed, wondering how he hasn't, until now, noticed that particular piece of evidence of how much she has suffered. He bites back a curse, instead opens his mouth to vent his frustrations about how something as simple as a cold shouldn't affect someone this much, but then she looks up at him, and her eyes are so frantic and so alarmed that nothing matters but getting the sticky, lemon-scented syrup down her throat as fast as possible to ease her suffering.

For something so simple and old-fashioned it works wonders, and within minutes he's able to settle beside her, re-wrapping the blanket around skin that has become eerily washed out and pale with lack of exposure to the outside world. But though their hands resume their comfortable, easy, entwined position, there is a careful distance between them as they sit side by side, leaning back against the cool panelling of the bath. It's deliberate, he knows, and there to help them both sort their way through this maze they are faced with, yet why it is necessary he couldn't explain, doesn't even waste time thinking about.

Instead he waits for her, knowing she needs the opportunity to gather her thoughts, to find the words she needs to voice what it is that is bothering her. He studies the room and its older fixtures and fittings – still serviceable and nice, well-kept, but nothing like what he would have chosen. It doesn't matter though, because it fits, it works. For both of them. The shower could be a little bigger, but the clutter is minimal, the extractor fan works, and the towel rail – a more recent addition – is heated. A blissful convenience when the dark, dreary early winter mornings roll around.

He ponders the absurd observations his mind has fixed on briefly, then gives up and goes back to studying the tiny interlocking squares that make up the carpet pattern. It's comforting and easy, and is helping his state of mind.

Grace breathes, the sound easier now, and her fingers shift and move lightly against his. His heart lurches slightly in apprehension of what he might be about to hear, what might be about to unfold. He wonders if there was anything he could have done differently up until this point to prevent this, whatever it is.

"I feel guilty," she finally says, and whatever it was that he was expecting, that was definitely not it. It takes everything he has left in him to say nothing and wait for her to continue.

"I feel guilty for doing this, for hiding. For causing so many problems. I feel terrible for wanting to be left alone when I know that most people only want to help. I feel guilty for what this is doing to you, and for everything you have to do for me that I should be able to do for myself. I feel guilty for things I can't explain, and even more so because I _can't_ explain it. And I feel guilty for feeling so many emotions that are so uncontrollable and confusing, and make so little sense."

She pauses to breathe – visibly using the process of moving air in and out of her body to maintain the fragile, wavering calm she has regained, and that alone stops him from leaping in to defend her emotions, makes him pause to think carefully about what she is really saying. "I know it's all irrational, but then I feel even guiltier because if I can recognise it, then why can't I fix it? It's my job to know all this, but somehow I can't apply it to myself. And I should be able to – I know I should."

She stops talking, and the hand that was twisting so fiercely into her blanket stops and falls limp, her fingers resting lightly in her lap as she fights off a shiver that he suspects has nothing at all to do with infection and illness.

His first instinct is to throw both argument and comfort at her, but Boyd doesn't answer immediately, instead forcing himself to sit and analyse her words, letting them sink in and he picks at their meaning, at the underlying issues.

"Do you remember what you said to me after Luke died?" he finally asks. "About how I couldn't expect to feel able to justify or even understand and make sense of all the things I was thinking and feeling, and how they were related to what had happened?"

Grace looks confused, but she nods slowly, murmurs an even slower, drawn-out, "Yes," as she visibly remembers.

"Do you remember what you said to me after that?"

She frowns for a second or two, clearly not sure what he is getting at, but replies anyway. "I said that it was normal. A perfectly normal response to trauma and that time would help, and that so would talking, if you wanted to."

Boyd turns, takes both her hands in his and looks down at her, his heart twisting just a little at the puzzled, bemused expression on her face. It is the fault of illness and exhaustion and rogue emotions, he knows, but her razor-sharp mind is one of the things he has always found most attractive about her, and seeing her so lost and muddled is not only heart-wrenching, but a little destabilising also.

Now is not the time to dwell on those thoughts though, and he pushes them aside, intent on trying his best to help her navigate her way through the maze she appears to be locked in. "Do you not think," he poses gently, "that those exact words apply to you and the situation we're in now?"

She blinks, and then looks utterly startled. As if the thought had never even come close to crossing her mind.

"But I –" she begins, before he interrupts, this time he allowing himself to cut across her.

"Should know better? Should recognise the signs of stress and trauma? Should be able to deal with it all on your own? " he asks.

"Yes." There's a hint of finality in her simple response, and lot of belief that she is right and has somehow failed herself. He's not prepared to let the matter go, however. Not prepared to let her keep believing it.

"No," he responds, and the iron-willed stubbornness he layers into his tone is every bit as hard and determined as it's ever been.

To say she looks surprised would be a gross understatement, though it's quickly followed by a narrowing of the eyes that he's become all too accustomed to over the years. But Boyd doesn't care. They will have this discussion, even if he has to argue with her until they both collapse from exhaustion – they need it, clearly.

"You're not superwoman, Grace, no matter what you think you should or shouldn't be able to do. You're just as human as I am, and that means your mind is, too. You can't expect yourself to be able to handle everything just because you can explain the academics and the theories behind it all until you're blue in the face. Being a psychologist doesn't exempt you from feeling and experiencing everything just as the rest of us do."

"But I know how to deal with these things," she protests.

Boyd shakes his head slowly, firmly, refusing to give in to frustration. "No, you know how to help _other_ people deal with them. When were you ever trained in how to heal yourself?"

That catches her attention, and she falls quiet again, digesting all he has said, absently tracing the seam of the blanket with the tip of her index finger. Gradually, something akin to acceptance begins to settle over her, though she remains clearly more than a little sceptical, disbelieving. He can see it happen, watches as she wrestles with herself, head and heart locked in a fierce battle. "I don't know what to do," she sighs at last, and it's as close to an admission that he's right that he's going to get, he knows.

It's a moment of insanity, he thinks. The fates have run mad, reversing their roles and desires like this – he wanting to talk and discuss and dissect, she offering resistance and wilful inflexibility of opinion in return. That doesn't stop him from continuing though, and, because he somehow instinctively knows it will be far better for her to come to the decision herself, instead of giving her the answer she is looking for, he poses a query. "What would you tell me to do, if this was reversed and I was in your shoes right now?"

That at least, she apparently doesn't need to think about. "I would encourage you to talk about it. To tell me what was bothering you. To explore all the things that are knotted up and confusing, and causing you pain."

He doesn't miss the wry expression that crosses her face briefly, even if it is quickly obscured by stubbornness, and what looks an awful lot like a refusal to believe that her own advice will actually help.

"Talk to me," he prompts, when they have sat without a word between them for more time than his patience can bear. Better to get this started than draw it out any longer, he reasons.

A long, heavy sigh precedes her slightly hesitant, "I don't know where to start."

"How about with why you feel guilty for hiding?" Boyd suggests, both curious and picking up on the first topic she listed that comes back to his mind.

She sits in silence again, but not ignoring his question, and once again he's reminded of the way her brain works. Of the complex and time-consuming way her thought processes travel from one end of a topic to another. He's watched her think her way through thorny problems from the safety of his glass-enclosed office on far more occasions that he ought probably to admit to, and he's been privy to the many nuances of expression that appear across her features as she peels back the layers, pulls apart the crossed threads, and finally arrives on the other side of the issue.

He wonders what it's like to travel through her mind, to see the world and people and emotions the way she does, because it never seems as simple to her as it would to him. One day, he thinks, he will ask her to walk him through it. To take a problem and guide him through the way she thinks and analyses and theorises and concludes. An experiment of sorts, an adventure into the female mind – into _her_ mind. Not tonight though, tonight he will simply test his patience and wait it out, and then do his best to help her pick apart her own knots.

"I'm not sure," she murmurs at last, tilting her head back and gently rolling her neck, trying to loosen the muscles there. "It's irrational, I think. A sense of… obligation to others. I think it's one of those things instilled into the gender. It's… wrong to push away those who are trying to help. To want to be left alone to deal with something in your own time and space." She pauses and sighs heavily. "But then again, there are some who aren't genuinely interested in helping – who just want the gossip and to feed their own self-worth by allowing themselves to think they care."

"That's… harsh," he comments, wincing at the thought.

"But true. Think of Michael at the front desk, or Abigail in HR. My cousin Betty."

He does, and grimaces at the handful of memories he calls up of recent meetings between Grace and the two individuals from work, neither of whom are really interested, but act the part anyway. And her cousin, the only relative to thus far appear, acting as though the greatest of tragedies had descended upon her kin, whilst trying to pump Grace for information to take back home with her.

"Not everyone is like that," he points out. "Eve cares. Genuinely cares. So do the rest of the unit."

"I know," Grace assures him, nodding. "And if I were alone and dealing with this, then maybe things would be different, maybe I would talk more and care less about those that want to gossip and share the details of my life, but I'm not alone. What we have… I don't want to share that with anyone. Part of me says that it's wrong of me to hide like this – the same part that feels ridiculously guilty – but another part of me says that our circumstances are unusual, and that quite apart from any concerns regarding work and our being in a relationship, we need time to establish ourselves and what we share together."

"That's… confusing."

"What is?"

"Guilty and not guilty at the same time."

Grace chuckles lightly. "Welcome to the female mind, Peter. And anyway, it's not not-guilty, it's justified guilt."

"Okaaay… That makes no sense whatsoever," he grumbles.

"I don't think it's supposed to," she sighs, resigned.

"Then what do you do? How do you… deal with it?"

"I don't think you do. I think I just have to let it go. If I were healthy and stronger and thinking with more clarity, I would. Other people's opinions don't matter, and I should stop allowing myself to think that they do." She pauses a moment, and then corrects herself. " _Most_ people's opinions. Some do matter – a lot. And those are the ones that are truly upsetting me."

"How so?"

Without warning, there's a sudden shift. The lightness in her tone vanishes, the open expression clouds and her eyes regain that look of angry, hostile frustration as she teeters on the brink of explosion again. "I'm _sick_ to _death_ of secrets and lies. Of hiding like I'm doing something wrong." It's a strange thing to say again, when they have just hashed out her thoughts and feelings over the matter, but then at the same time it's not. Boyd can feel that there is unfinished business here, stones thus far left unturned.

"Is this because of Alex?" he asks, thoughts and ideas and memories suddenly merging into a clearer picture. He doesn't have to think hard to picture the look on her face when her nephew arrived – though clearly delighted to see him, there was something else in her eyes. Fear. The same sort of fear, in fact, that he experiences whenever someone else learns of their secret. The same sort of fear, he realises, that's been holding onto him since his meeting with Andrew and Katherine.

And that fear, it comes with a whole lot of guilt. He's lived with it for months – guilt about hiding, about lying, about not including people, about actively excluding them. Not letting others – like Alex – make their own decisions under the guise of protecting them from the truth. It all falls under the banner of what she's just told him.

It _is_ irrational, he realises. They shouldn't be afraid of letting people in, letting those they care about near them. And she's right – in a normal set of circumstances he can see it being easy, can see them mixing with friends and family, openly able to share their life, their relationship with others. But… But these are not normal circumstances, and that bubble of secrecy has served as a protective barrier for the two of them far more than it has for anyone else for all this time now, and they have both clung to that with everything they have, he knows it.

She's fighting to stay calm; he can hear the strain and effort in her voice as she speaks. "I think so, yes. And your family."

He should have known that despite everything she's said, she would be uneasy about that. He still is, and they're _his_ siblings.

"When Alex walked in and saw me, his face… his eyes…" It is only when she sniffs that he realises she's fighting tears. Wordlessly, because he has no idea what to say now, he hands her a tissue, gently rubs her shoulder. She sniffs, wipes away heavy, wet streaks running down her face. "I'm tired of lying, of hiding and feeling like I can't talk to people, but I don't want anything to change, either. And I don't know how to reconcile that."

He takes a long, deep breath, thinking carefully. "I don't think you can. It's like you said – there is no answer. I think we have to pick a side on this one, and stick to it. Deal with the rest of it later. Right now we have our priorities, and those come first.

"But is it really right to exclude those close to us? People who genuinely care, and deserve better than being shut out of our lives?"

He turns the question around on her. "Is it right not to? Would you be able to cope with people turning up here, trying to help but inevitably saying or doing the wrong thing? What if the phone rang constantly with friends and relatives and random acquaintances all asking questions about how you're feeling and coping, and wanting to know what more can be done to help?"

He doesn't need to see her flinch to know that he is right. She knows it too, he suspects, knows even. Not that he is right, but everything he has said. It was part of their original discussion when she expressed her desire for privacy, a desire he wholeheartedly supported. That he _still_ supports.

"You're right, I know you are. But I can't stop myself from… from arguing it both ways in my head, over and over and over again. It's like I need to keep rationalising it, to allow myself to live with the decision, but then every time I do, I get swamped in the negatives and I don't know how to let them go."

This type of thinking… he doesn't understand it. Never has. He understands that she thinks that way, but it doesn't make any sense to him. And he doesn't know how to make it any clearer, to help her see that worrying herself around in circles is a pointless exercise in futility. It's a side-effect, he knows, but part of him wonders if it's also a chronic exacerbation of a pre-existing predisposition for overthinking things. The answer isn't there for the taking, so he does the only thing he can think of and poses the question to her the way he would if he were at work.

"What would you do if you had a steady stream of visitors turning up here to visit?"

He can see her fighting with herself, wanting to give one answer, but then reminding herself to be honest, truthful. "It would be nice to see some friends on occasion," she admits. "I love the days I can go in to work for that reason – it's hard to be alone all day every day. It's incredibly hard not to be involved in cases and files, not to be occupying my brain with the puzzles and the stories and all the details of how people and events fit together." She stares at her feet, idly twitches her toes as she thinks. "I miss the team, and hearing about their day-to-day lives – what's happening, what isn't. I miss the jokes and the laughter and the insignificant in-between moments we don't really think about on a daily basis… I would have loved to spend Christmas with your family and meet everyone – put faces to all the names and stories you've shared with me. But…"

"But physically it is impossible?" he asks, hoping his gamble pays off.

"Physically it would be impossible," she agrees, and her sadness at the admission is all too plain to him. "I know I wouldn't be able to cope with it. I can't stay awake for more than a few hours at a time some days. I know it would be a disaster. I know can't entertain guests – sometimes I can barely make myself lunch or a cup of tea without needing to sit down. But…"

She pauses slightly, and Boyd feels his eyes narrow. "But what?"

Grace sighs heavily, her breath wheezy and uneven as her shoulders tremble with the effort. "Nothing," she mumbles, trying to evade the question.

"But?" he pushes, determined not to give in.

"But I still want to argue, even though it's pointless."

That confuses him. Grace is far too sensible to fight against futility and something that she cannot change. "Why?" he asks, considerably more gentle now.

The frustration in her is palpable once again, and still growing as she snaps back a short, "I don't know!"

If he didn't love her so much it would be incredibly easy to give in, thinks Boyd, as he mentally grits his teeth and reins in the urge to lose his temper. Instead he keeps his tone calm and level as he pokes at what is clearly a raw wound. "Yes you do."

Sparks flash in her eyes as she glares daggers at him, streaks of her earlier anger flaring up again and visibly rippling through her. Something, and whether it's her innate stubbornness, a desire to prove to him that she's willing to see this through to the end, or something else, he doesn't know, but something makes her keep going. Whatever it is, he's grateful for it.

"I. Hate. It," she finally grinds out, teeth clenched.

"Hate what?" It's the wrong question, he knows, but he needs clarification. Can't help her without it.

"Everything!" she explodes, and the vehemence and fury are all too plain, even though the delivery is breathless and squeaky. Forget a cold, he muses, with an internal sigh, this is beginning to look like a full-blown chest infection. "I _hate_ this," she rages, " _all_ of it. Everything. I just can't do it anymore. I can't deal with it."

Tears break free and begin to stream down her face as she loses the last remnants of her control and breaks down completely. He does the only thing he can, gathering her into his arms and cradling her as close as possible. He says nothing while she cries herself out for a second time, knowing that not only is she incapable of responding, but that she's also past the point of listening and understanding, so instead he offers only the simplicity of comfort and sanctuary in his arms. And if any of the tears that drip down his bare chest, or soak into the fleece of the blanket are his, he pretends not to notice.


	7. Chapter 7

It's so late now – or early, even – that Boyd knows the entire day will be lost to sleep and rest once they eventually make it to bed, but he doesn't bother wasting time dwelling on that as he listens to Grace cry herself out, as he masters control of his own emotions once again. It takes a long, long time but he doesn't say a word, he just continues to hold her, one hand stroking soothing patterns across her back and arm, while his head rests gently against hers.

When the door creaks slightly they both glance up at it to see a pair of overly large, pointy black ears appear around the frame, quickly followed by luminous green eyes that regard them both with quiet intensity.

"How did you get out of the kitchen?" Boyd asks, raising an eyebrow as Freyja takes a guilty, hesitant step forwards. "Come on, then," he sighs, clicking his tongue softly against the roof of his mouth. "Come and join the party." The cat pads softly and silently across the room towards them, gently head-butting their joined hands before climbing delicately up into Grace's lap. Purring warmly, she curls up, tucks her head under Grace's free hand and settles down.

It's the catalyst they need to start talking again.

"I'm angry," she tells him, and he knows that, despite the fact that she's already said it, to her it's an incredibly significant omission. A turning point.

"What with?"

"Everything. I don't even have the words…" she trails off, flounders for a moment before collecting herself enough to go on. "I'm angry with… everything. That's what it feels like. This disease because of the mess it's made of my life, the doctors because they can't just make it go away. People around me. The world. I'm angry with everything because I'm struggling like mad to keep my head above the water when I constantly feel like I'm being pulled further and further down. And I hate it. Every minute of it."

"I think that's a pretty normal, natural reaction," he muses, cautiously.

"I know," she agrees, much, much calmer now. "It is."

"But that doesn't make it any easier to deal with."

"No." Boyd reaches around her to tickle the cat under the chin. Freyja bats his hand away and Grace chuckles weakly as she watches their game. "I'm angry with myself for feeling so angry," she finally concludes, her eyes welling over again as a few more tears, silent this time, fall hotly and heavily down her face. "I feel like…"

"What?"

"Like I have no control – over my body or my emotions. It's so overwhelming. It's… terrifying, and that's… not something I'm used to. I just… I don't know how to deal with it."

He shifts slightly until she's resting against his chest, flexing his aching back a little in the process before encouraging her to lean into him, his arms tucking comfortably, reassuringly, around her as she rests her head against his shoulder and he brushes a tiny, lingering kiss against her temple.

"Guess what," he tells her, "I'm afraid, too. In fact, I'm fucking terrified, if you want the truth of it. Every single day I'm absolutely petrified that something is going to go wrong, that I'm going to lose you. That I'm going to wake up and you'll be gone. That I'm going to get a phone call at work. That I'm going to come home from work and find you…"

He has to stop, has to take a breath and then two, and three and four and five, because the nightmare images that have been haunting him, stalking him in his dreams as well as during his waking hours – they are too powerful, too intense. And they could so easily be all too real.

He rests his head against the top of hers again, lets her soft, spiky hair brush against his cheek. It's soothing, and if a few more stray tears fall from his eyes, well, at least she can't see them.

"I'm afraid, Grace," he admits, "because as hard and horrible as this has been – and still is – I honestly cannot imagine not coming home to you at the end of the day, not falling asleep beside you at night… I know we keep talking about that promise, about having the rest of our lives to spend with each other, but…"

"But," she prompts gently, when he doesn't continue.

It's hard to make himself answer, to confess to what it is he's been hiding from her for weeks now. Maybe even months. But in the end, as she twists and looks up at him and he sees the expression of pure fear in her eyes that she's desperately trying to hide from him but just can't quite manage to, he feels something harsh and hard and agonising claw straight into his fractured heart and spur him into responding. Because in the end, he reminds himself, the very fact that she's trying to hide something from him is exactly why they are having this conversation. "But I'm scared – absolutely terrified, actually – that it's not going to happen. I'm scared of losing you every single day, and I have been for weeks and weeks now."

The silence between them is broken by Freyja's purring, a sound so tender that it inexplicably pulls some of agony out of their conversation. It's not much, but it is enough for them to continue.

"I don't know what to say to help you," sighs Grace. "I'm afraid of the same thing. That this – or something else tomorrow or next week or next month, maybe, if the chemo hasn't worked – that it will be the end. The unknown is…"

"The hardest thing to deal with," he finishes.

She nods against his chest. "You're right, it is. And it makes everything else so much harder to deal with, to understand."

The words are out in the open, but neither of them know what to say, and Boyd wonders if he should try and press the situation more. His lack of an appropriate argument convinces him otherwise, though, for now this surely will be a topic of conversation they will return to at a more suitable time. Perhaps, he decides, moving on and tackling something else would be for the best right now. And there are plenty of other topics and questions still burning in his mind, things that for both their sake's he now knows need to be addressed, or at the very least started in conversation so that they are there and open to return to when the moment is right.

He recalls her earlier words, and – just like he would in an interview at work – he picks up on the next leading topic he can remember, using that as a way to restart their conversation.

"Why do you feel guilty about what you think this is doing to me?"

She doesn't answer as he expects, instead responding with a question of her own. "Would you have gone to see your family this Christmas if we weren't together?"

"Probably, yes. It's been a long time since I saw Andrew, and even longer since I spent time with Katherine – really talked to her about things that matter. I've missed it, but then the distance is… it's not entirely all my fault, but it is probably more heavily weighted towards me."

"And if I hadn't been ill, but we were still in a relationship, would you have gone then?"

He doesn't need to think about that – he knows the answer because he's thought about it over the years in snippets and snatches of time when he's allowed himself to daydream, to hope. "Yes, I would. But I would have taken you with me – assuming, of course, that you wanted to go."

"There's part of my answer then," she sighs. "I'm preventing you from seeing your family – my illness is further widening the gap that already exists and that… is very hard to live with."

Somehow he knew this would be her argument.

"You're wrong." He's blunt this time, some of the gentleness he's held on to until now fading away as a hint of frustration begins to rear in his heart. This idea of a choice… he hates it. Despises it, even. Because in his mind there is no choice, and there never has been. If she looks a little startled, he chooses to ignore it, even as he takes her hand and stares straight into her eyes, hoping he will somehow force her to believe him.

"You are the single most important thing in my life, Grace. I mean it. I love you. Without question, reserve, or condition. You have no idea how much it means to me that when I come home at the end of the day, I come home to you."

"So you've said," she nods. "But all of this…" she lifts her hands, gestures vaguely as she tries to communicate her point.

He knows exactly what she means. "It doesn't matter," he tells her, absolutely truthfully.

"But…" she starts to protest.

He cuts her off. "No, stop. This was my choice, and nothing has changed that. Nothing will. Andrew and Katherine aren't going to disappear just because I'm not going to spend Christmas Day with them."

She sighs again, sounds doubtful as she mumbles, "If you say so."

"I do," he replies firmly. "They've been stuck with me since I was born – that older sibling stuff is far too ingrained in both of them for either to disappear permanently. A bit of distance is nothing. It's irrelevant. And besides, it's happened before. Now, what's the rest of your answer? Why else do you feel guilty about what you think this is doing to me?"

He can almost hear her thinking as she phrases her response in her head. "Because there's so much inequality between us at the moment. Because there's so much responsibility resting on you that should be shared. There is no normal for us. We can't just decide to go away for the weekend or go out for the day – we can't even make plans in advance because there is no way of knowing whether or not I'll be physically capable of handling it on the day. Everything that should be easy and fun isn't. There is no certainty, no… stability. We've been trying to build a relationship when the ground beneath us is constantly moving, constantly changing. That's a huge task, and it's not fair. It's not fair to ask you to come home and deal with everything that I can't when you've been at work all day and under the kind of pressure that the Met are piling up on you."

"I've been handling that pressure for years, Grace. Well before the CCU was created – I'm used to it. They've always seen me as a bad boy, as one of the controversial ones, but that didn't stop them from promoting me and giving me different command posts. They push me hard because they know it will get them results, and what we do in the unit makes them look good. It's not in their interests to throw that away."

"I know that," sighs Grace, "but the Smith woman…"

"Maureen has just been promoted – she's still trying to get her feet under the table and assert her dominance. You know that as well as I do. Plus, she's not the only senior officer. It'll be fine."

"But she's really gunning for you, Peter, and that worries me."

He sighs, weighing his next words carefully, wondering how much to say as he tries to reassure her. "Her issues with me are personal, not professional. And she has far too much integrity to hang me – or anyone else for that matter – out to dry for anything less than a valid professional reason."

"Personal?" Grace looks up at him, momentarily confused. Then her eyes widen and she says, "Oh God, don't tell me you and she...?"

"No!" he shudders at the thought. " _Never_ , I swear. But her sister Helen, on the other hand…" He grins at the memory. "I had no idea they were related."

"Oh." A single word, faintly amused, quite perplexed, and slightly stunned all at the same time. Rather like he felt when he discovered the truth, if he remembers correctly.

"Indeed." He pauses, memory taking him on a trip back a considerable number of years in time. "I liked her, though. Quite a lot actually."

Despite the situation, the disbelief in Grace's tone is distinctly entertaining. "Maureen?"

" _Helen_!" The sigh of relief that she works hard to make sure he doesn't hear but that he feels anyway makes him grin just a little.

"Do I dare ask what happened?" she ventures, hesitantly.

He laughs. "It's not as bad as it sounds. Well, maybe it was, actually – for Maureen, anyway."

"Oh God."

"It was years and years ago, not long before I met Mary, actually. I'd met Helen in a pub – she was winning money off a load of office boys who thought a woman would never know her way around a pool table. She saw me laughing and said if I could beat her she'd buy me a drink – in the end I bought her one. She was fiery and funny, good company. We were friends, and then a bit more, but nothing serious, and we both agreed on it. But then Maureen turned up at their flat one night – completely unexpected and out of the blue since she was supposed to be working away that week in Leeds or somewhere – and –"

"Don't tell me," groans Grace, "She caught you in the act?"

"She did indeed. She was… not pleased."

"I can imagine."

Too late, it occurs to Boyd that talking about his past exploits with the woman who is but… isn't exactly… his current lover is perhaps not the best combination he could have come up with. He winces instinctively, the complexities of his and Grace's situation suddenly smacking him full force in the chest again as she sneezes violently, breaking out into a fresh round of coughing that leaves her retching and choking. She's too weak to stand and move to the sink, instead she lurches sideways, spilling the meowing cat to the carpet, and, slumped over the edge of the bath, its side supporting all of her weight, she fumbles for the taps, her grip too lax and her fingers slipping off the surface.

As gently as he can he slides an arm around her waist and up across her chest to her shoulders, supporting her weight as he shifts behind her, his own body providing something for her to rest against as his free hand closes around hers and carefully twists until the water flows. She spills far more than she doesn't, but eventually manages to rinse her mouth and wash her face, though while the coughing gradually subsides again, the shivering and wheezing only increase further.

With her tucked against him he can feel the extent of the tremors running through her muscles, the way her limbs shake with weariness, and how she seems to crumble in on herself, the physical fight becoming too much to handle. It's heart-breaking, because it's not her, not who she is. Because he's watched and held and loved and supported her the whole way through, but he's never seen her look so bad until now, never seen her not able to determinedly fight back with some kind of hidden reserve.

A thought occurs to him, and it's one that instantly sends an icy chill deep into his chest and makes his heart lurch. What if her loss of control tonight, the way her anger has spilled over so forcefully, is because all this time she's been channelling it into her physical fight and using it to keep pushing and pushing, to keep going whatever the circumstances. What if this… whatever _this_ is between them right now… what if it's because she's finally lost the ability to keep fighting physically, and the only thing left is the emotion?

For the first time Boyd stumbles over what to say, whether to take up the conversation from where they were, despite the thorny subject matter, or whether to try and skirt it completely by asking something else. It's a hard choice and he hesitates for a while, but then, in the end, as he resettles them both on the floor, her in his lap and the blanket wrapped around them both, she takes the choice from him.

"I'm afraid that this is… not enough," she offers, an unprompted admission that from her tone is clearly very indicative that this is also a significant part of what is bothering her. "This huge imbalance between us… it makes me feel so guilty. Makes me hate myself for not being an equal part in this relationship. I feel like I can't give you what you need and deserve, and what you want – what I want, too. There is so much missing from our relationship right now, and it's all because of me. I know that we've talked, but…"

It is his turn to prompt her, to turn the same question back to her. "But?"

"I can't stop myself from thinking about it. I can't pretend that what we have is really enough. You can say it's a temporary thing, but we've been saying that for months now and I'm not getting any better… If anything, I'm getting worse. What if it _isn't_ a temporary thing?"

He feels like the bottom has dropped out of his stomach, like he's taken a physical blow to the heart, and it takes everything he has left in him to bite back an instant, angry response, to instead breathe and count until he can calmly ask, "You're not happy with what we have?"

Grace pauses, clearly thinking hard about her answer. "Yes… and no," she finally muses, her words slow and careful, as though she is weighing the truth against any damage she thinks she might cause. "I love you, Peter – more than anything. And I'm incredibly grateful for what we have together…"

He's about to prompt her again, and then stops himself. They have made it this far – he knows her well enough to know that she will not back down now. She will finish what she has to say, in her own time. Her body may have had more than enough, and her heart may be cracking under the strain, but there's still a tiny scrap of that stubborn streak left in her otherwise they wouldn't still be sitting here.

"But it's not enough. It's wonderful, it means more to me than I could ever tell you, but you can't honestly tell me that you're not every bit as frustrated by all the limitations as I am, can you?"

As painful as it is, she's absolutely right, though until now he would never even have entertained the thought of telling her. "No," he confesses. "I can't."

"So there we are," she sighs, and he can hear every ounce of misery clinging to her in her tone as she speaks. "We're both unhappy."

"That's… true." It hurts more than he ever thought it would to admit, but this is about honesty, about sharing all the things they've been keeping from one another, and though he cannot even begin to imagine a conversation more brutal and agonising than what they have been dragging themselves through, he can see where things have already begun to be ironed out, can feel the loss of the weight of certain secrets that have been clinging to him like heavy, viscous, toxic mud. It feels better to be breathing in the wounded open than drowning under the relentless pressure.

"But… it's also untrue at the same time, Grace." He feels her start against him, and wonders if she was expecting the next thing to fall between them to be some kind of ending. He can feel the warm sogginess of tears against his chest again, he can even feel the desperate sadness that seems to be radiating from every inch of her body as she tucks herself just a little bit closer, as though she's afraid this is it, this is the point where it all falls apart. The thought is like yet another blow to the chest, filling him with bitter, harrowing sorrow, and automatically he tightens his grip, holds her closer, refuses to let go.

She sniffs heavily, her voice thick with emotion as she asks a weary, distraught, "What do you mean?"

"Yes, the circumstances are terrible, and yes, we are missing a lot. Yes, it's a struggle every day, but not all of it is bad. I miss you every day at work, but then I think of how you make me laugh and smile. It can be the worst possible day with dozens of catastrophes, but then I can come home and curl up on the sofa with you and madam here," he pokes Freyja with the toe she's been nibbling on, smiling when the cat lunges for his foot and misses as he yanks it back.

"Is it agonisingly hard to watch you suffer and try to push through it all every day? Yes, it is. Do I find myself getting so frustrated and angry that I lash out and shout at others because it's the only way I know to let it all out? Yes, I do. I'm not proud of it, but I do it because it's helping me get through this. Am I constantly tired and worried about a thousand and one things that may or may not happen or go wrong? Yes. Do I wish every day that we didn't have to deal with this? Yes, I do – I'd be mad if I didn't. But would I change anything? No. No, I wouldn't because I can't imagine not being here with you. I can't imagine not being able to sit here arguing with you, or waking up with you curled up beside me doing that half-hearted snoring thing that you do, or doing or seeing any of the hundreds of other things that I've shared with you, or learned about you in the last few months."

Her shoulders quiver against his chest in what feels suspiciously like a thin giggle at his snoring comment, something he has teased her about mercilessly whenever a little levity has been needed, and he smiles, knowing that they are getting somewhere. "So it's a little more complicated than either of us would like… Well, so what? In the grand scheme of things, it really doesn't matter that much. You matter to me, you and your health."

"I know that," she mumbles, still sniffing. "You keep telling me that."

Boyd sighs, caught in what he can only think of as a strange mixture of both frustration and affection. "Then would you please get it into that ridiculously intelligent brain of yours that I love you, and for me that's enough. Everything else we can deal with."

"Okay." Her voice is small; worn out, almost. As though she's trying very hard to allow herself to believe it, believe him.

"I mean it," he tells her, a hint of insistence creeping into his tone.

Grace nods against him. "I know," she replies, tone growing in strength. "I just…"

"What?"

"I just want to live my life without being frustrated by everything I want to do but can't. I want to be able to cook a meal without almost collapsing halfway through. I want to go out to dinner with you and wander along the Embankment, looking at the river. I want to make it through stupid insignificant household chores just so I can feel like I've done something worthwhile. I want to do more than just fall asleep and wake up beside you. I'd like to go to the beach and walk down by the waves even though it's freezing cold just because I want to hear you grumbling – and I want to have the strength to argue back and forth with you just because I can."

"I know," he sighs, arms slipping further around her waist. "Believe me, I know. But there's nothing you can do but be patient."

She chokes – that's the only way he can think of describing the sound she makes at his words. " _You_ are telling _me_ to be patient?" The sheer level of incredulity in her tone is astonishing. And also highly entertaining.

Laughing, he nods. "It seems I am."

"Hmm," she mutters. "Wonders will never cease."

Still smiling, Boyd kisses the top of her head. "This is exactly what I was just talking about," he tells her. "Here we are, sitting on the floor of the damn bathroom in the middle of the bloody night, you're so ill you can't even stand on your own two feet, we're both exhausted, and we're having the most horrendously awful, emotionally jarring conversation, and yet you just made me smile and laugh."

She pauses for a moment, and then nods. "Okay, point taken. But you know that goes both ways, though, don't you? That I feel the same way about you?"

"I do," he agrees.

Grace shifts against him until her back is against his chest once more and she can lean into him; grateful for the change in position he takes the opportunity to flex again, easing cramped, tired muscles, before clasping his hands loosely around her waist.

The natural, easy silence that falls between them allows his mind to wander back over the conversation and the twists and turns it has taken. Remembering something, he says, "You know we're a really long way off topic now, right?"

"We are? What were we talking about?"

"How you would react emotionally to having others involved in our life." He wonders what she will say, where the conversation will turn next, but continues anyway. "How would you feel, discussing your health all the time? Listening to well-meaning questions that are the same every time you speak to a different person?"

"I would… struggle," she grimaces. "As much as I hate to admit to it, I do have limited patience at the moment, and even though it really distresses me, there's nothing I can do about it."

He spots an opening she's unintentionally given him, chooses to capitalise on it. "Why do you have limited patience?"

She doesn't hesitate – clearly knows the answer. "Because I'm constantly so tired. Because I'm run-down and not feeling well, and just not myself at the moment."

"And why can't you do anything about it?"

If he stretches slightly he can just see enough of her face in the mirror on the wall opposite to see that she looks annoyed by his question, as though it's far too obvious. She still answers, though. "Because I can't fix my health – I can only follow doctor's orders and wait for it to hopefully improve."

"So your emotional reaction –" he pushes, his tone deliberately neutral and enquiring as he leaves the sentence open to her.

"Is a consequence of my physical health," she finishes. A moment passes, and then two before understanding dawns on her face. Realising what he's just talked her into admitting under her own steam, she first grimaces, and then shakes her head ruefully, a tiny hint of a smile forming. The tiniest spark that's still left in her flares in her eyes as she says, "Oh, very good, Peter. You should have been a psychologist."

He grins and shakes his head, holding her closer as he savours the moment, the scrap of time where he can see a ghostly hint of her fiery, argumentative nature. "No way – not even close to enough patience."

She's quiet again, digesting it all. "So we're back to the beginning again," she finally murmurs.

"What do you mean?"

"Whether or not we keep this secret between us, or let other people in."

It's the most important question between them, he knows. Everything else in their life at the moment hinges on this decision. "I still think we are doing the right thing," he tells her, and it's the truth – he wholeheartedly believes it.

"I think," she says slowly, "That you are right. I thought it at the very beginning, and even though it was a horrible decision to make, and to keep maintaining, I still believe it now."

"Good. That leaves us on the same page then."

"It does, yes."

"Thank God that's settled, then," he says, with feeling. She laughs once, a short, disbelieving sound that tells him even though she's worked through it all in her head, her heart is still at war over the subject. It doesn't surprise him, but as long as the edge has been taken off, which he's sure it has, then he thinks it will be okay. Once rested and feeling better, she'll be able to look at everything more objectively.

Settling back a little more, Boyd suppresses a yawn and asks something he's been pondering, but wants to hear her thoughts on. "Why tonight? Why did this all happen today?"

Scepticism aside, she sounds reflective and thoughtful as she speaks, considering her answer even as the words leave her mouth. "I think tonight emotion and all the other things that have been piling up on top of each other just got in the way. I hit the limit of what I could withstand physically by doing too much and then staying up too late, and when Alex came… his reaction was simply the final straw."

"I agree."

"What?" Grace sounds confused, looks it too as she briefly cranes her neck to look up at him.

Placing an absent kiss on her forehead, which burns so hotly under his lips it almost makes him flinch, he shrugs. "I was thinking about it earlier, and that's the same conclusion I reached."

"Then why did you ask me?"

"Ah…" He grimaces to himself, not wanting to admit it.

"Peter..?"

"I…"

"Just say it," she pushes, gently.

"So far, no matter how ill you've been, you've still been able to reason and think logically through things, no matter how complicated. Tonight I started to wonder if that was… not the case."

This time she sounds curious as she asks, "And what did you conclude?"

"That it isn't the case. You're just too tired and too sick."

"Oh."

Resting the side of his head against hers, he says, "You do know you've pushed yourself way too far this time, don't you?"

"Yes."

He continues, despite the rising, warning hint of irritation in her tone. "You're going to be ill for days."

Her, "I know," is just as belligerently delivered.

"Okay." After so many years he's learned a thing or two, and he knows when to leave a subject alone.

She sighs, long and hard. "I was going to be ill anyway, Peter. This cold has been building for about a week now, not just the last couple of days, and I wanted to have a few good memories with the people I love from this Christmas. I know I'll pay for it – I'm already paying for it."

Almost as if to prove her point she starts to cough yet again, and he's startled to realise just how much worse her breathing has become in the time they've been sitting here. There's a heavy, wheezy rasp from deep within her chest each time she inhales, and with her body pressed back against his own he can feel the effort that is going into each breath she takes. When she leans forward, torso pressed against her legs to steady herself, he rubs a soothing hand up and down her back, trying to help ease the spasms while forcing himself not to cringe at the way the bones of her spine are now so prominent, so easy to distinguish under his touch.

This time when she calms he has to help her sit up again, has to hold her firmly against his body to stop her toppling sideways. "You can't even sit up by yourself," he mutters before he's thought about it and stopped himself. "How are you still able to carry on this level of conversation?"

"I really don't know," she sighs, still a little breathless. "Stubbornness, maybe?"

"That's for bloody sure," he returns, steadying her more as she accidentally lists to one side, utterly drained. They chuckle together, and the sound is like music to his ears. "God, what would I do without you, hm?"

"Sleep a lot more, probably."

"That's true. I wouldn't have half these late nights with the trips to hospital or the crazy midnight conversations. No sets of medication to keep track of, or appointments to make sure you get to."

"Nope – your life would be so much simpler."

Despite the topic, the conversation is still light, affectionate. He nuzzles the back of her neck, hums with pleasure as her fingers find his and her smaller hand slips snugly into his larger one. "But nowhere near as happy."

"If you say so."

"I do." One of his hands is curved around her waist, and he splays his fingers out, tenderly stoking her skin, concentrating on the softness, the way she relaxes so completely under his touch, her body melting backwards into his. In the comforting, heavy silence of the dark room, Grace tucks her head into his shoulder and with a small shift he's able to rest his against hers.

"I'm glad," she murmurs, the words brushing lightly against his collarbone.

Closing his eyes is easy, fighting against the pull of overwhelming tiredness is not. Instead he thinks about the moment, concentrates on the how it feels to hold her in his arms. It's a tiny sliver of perfection in a night that has been long and hard and traumatic, and he savours every second of it, knowing exactly how rare these moments can be.

She breathes slowly, and he counts the breaths as they tickle his skin, smiles at the natural harmony they create with the snores of the cat draped across their tangled legs.

"What I don't understand, though," Grace begins, "is how did I not see it coming? How did I not see how much it was all beginning to affect me?" She's contemplative now, and a little puzzled, but thankfully much of the emotion and distress that was overwhelming her has dissipated, leaving behind a much steadier calm that Boyd wholeheartedly appreciates.

"Because you think you should be able to handle everything that hits you. Because you think you should be able to be strong all the time simply because you understand the mechanics of it all." He's argued this point already, but he doesn't care. The fact that a woman as fiercely intelligent as Grace cannot, or will not, understand something so simple… it boggles his mind. "Grace, you've got to learn that you're not invincible – that you aren't immune to all the things that affect the mind just because you've spent your adult life working in that field. That's like saying I'm immune to being a victim of crime because I'm a police officer, which we both know is complete nonsense."

"I suppose so."

"I know so!"

"Of course you do." She's exasperated, but only mildly, and it's mixed with a small dose of warm amusement too. "I still feel guilty," she admits.

"I know that, too."

"How?"

"Because I know you – I've learned a thing or two over the years."

"What do I do then?"

"Nothing." He sighs, reaching up to scratch his beard. "Come on, Grace, we've just been through all this. There _is_ no right answer at the moment."

Her response is a noise that is noncommittal at best, making him fight down the temptation to grind his teeth. "You do realise," he points out, a distant part of his mind faintly amused by the reversal of roles that seems to have befallen them, "that we could argue this around in circles for days and never get anywhere because the simple fact is we can't change what we're dealing with. We can only wait. And hope. And love each other as we are now."

"And in the meantime accept things the way they are instead of trying to fight them?" It's a question and a statement, as well as a breakthrough, he knows, but the deep, sad sigh that the sentence is accompanied with is very telling. She's only halfway to accepting it, even though she knows it's the best way forward. The only way forward, if they want to keep their sanity intact.

"Yes."

"Yes…" she echoes, voice trailing off into quiet, reluctant agreement.

Boyd leaves it at that, doesn't try to search for any more words. There's nothing else he can say that will help her with the answer right now – only time, and rest, will do that.

"Why is it so hard to live with?" she muses after a while, though he can tell she doesn't really expect a response from him.

He doesn't try to answer it, knows he hasn't got the stamina – or the patience – for that kind of discussion right now. Instead he contemplates something else, something that's been germinating in the back of his mind for a while now. "It doesn't need to be a permanent thing, you know. We can change our minds at some point in the future and tell whomever we like. Or even just let one or two – or a few – more people know. Nothing is set in stone."

"No, you're right, it's not. It's just…"

"Hard?" he suggests.

"Yeah."

"It's a hard situation to be in, and whatever we do it won't suit some people, but I really think that what's best for you – for both of us – has to come first. We can deal with the rest later."

"Okay," she yields, finally succumbing to acceptance.

"Really?" He feels his eyebrows rise in disbelief.

"Well, what else can I do but agree with you? Sit here and have this conversation all over again?"

He shivers at the thought. "No. No! Please don't."

"Well then, in this instance, I think it has to be conceded that you are right." He's about to ask for that in writing for future reference when she tacks on a codicil that makes him laugh and hold her just a little bit tighter. "If only so that we can end this damn discussion and get some bloody sleep."

"I really do love you, you know," he tells her, as honest as he's ever been in his life.

"I know," she replies. "I love you, too."


	8. Chapter 8

"Shall we relocate to bed? It might be slightly more comfortable," he finally suggests, his back now one solid, sullen ache.

"Mm," she agrees, though she doesn't move so much as a millimetre from where she is still snuggled against him.

There's a small clock beside the sink, and, craning his neck and squinting in the low light, he's just about able to make out the time, which has now crawled on well into the early hours of the morning.

"Merry Christmas, Grace," he murmurs, lips grazing the top of her head, his nose gently nuzzling her short, spiky hair.

She looks up at him, eyes blurred with exhaustion. "Is it really?"

Her cheek is hot from the raging fever, but still smooth under his skin and he slowly investigates, lets his fingertips meander across her features in a tender lover's caress. Her eyes flutter closed and he traces them with infinite care, soaking in the way she hums with pleasure under his touch.

"As of about four and a half hours ago, yes," he replies slowly, fascinated with his explorations, lost in her, in the way she reacts to him. Lost in the way she feels, bewitched by the calm, relaxed expression on her face, by the way the same deep, unadorned love that he feels reflects back in her eyes as she looks up at him again, smiling hazily.

He leans down to rest his head against hers and feels the gentle press of her lips against his temple. "Merry Christmas, Peter."

He's loath to break up the moment, to let go of her and their embrace, but eventually he notes her breathing begin to change, suggesting sleep is becoming fairly imminent, and so he nudges her carefully.

"Come on, it's bedtime. I'm shattered, so I dread to think how bad you must feel."

She starts a little, sits up with a wince and a groan that's not quite hidden in time. "Pretty bad," is all she will admit to, though. Instead she reaches out a shaky hand to stroke the sleepy cat. "Back to the kitchen, you," she tells Freyja, trying to encourage their pet to move from her lap.

"Oh, Grace, come on! It's Christmas – surely you can relent and let her come and sleep on the bed? Just for one night?"

She sighs, shaking her head at him. "All right, why not," she cedes, as Freyja yawns, stretches languidly, and finally gets slowly to her feet, paws flexing as her claws sink deep into the carpet and then retract again. "You spoil her so much!" Grace accuses, and Boyd can do nothing but grin, because it's entirely true. "And don't think I don't know that you were giving her extra treats earlier, either."

"How," he protests, staring down at her in mild disbelief, "could you possibly know that?"

"I have eyes in the back of my head."

"Funny!" His lips brush against the back of her neck as one arm curves around her body, holding her tighter, closer, even as his thumb gently taps her ribs. "Come on, tell!" he urges.

"I could hear her crunching the biscuits," she admits, her own fingers wrapping around his as her eyes drift shut again, head resting back against his chest. "And besides, I know all about the second bag you use to top up the first one – you can't hide your little secret from me, you know, just because you put it on top of the cabinets where I can't reach."

"Busted," he sighs mischievously, thoroughly unrepentant.

"Absolutely."

Grace giggles, and then he joins in, welcoming the lightness of the moment, the way she shakes against his body for a reason other than illness and fever. Freyja turns around to stare at them, head tilted adorably to one side.

Boyd sighs, entirely aware of his folly, even as he says, "How can you resist that little face? Those eyes?"

"I know _you_ can't," retorts Grace, her laughter transforming into what is very definitely a snigger. "Honestly, you of all people falling for a cat… if only they knew at the Yard… I could dine out on it for months!"

"Don't even think about it," he warns.

"Would I?" Grace challenges.

"Maybe. If I managed to piss you off enough."

"Mmm," she considers. "That's true."

" _Grace…_ "

"Kidding!"

He doesn't need to see the smirk to know it's there, but he doesn't bother to retaliate this time. Truthfully, he's enjoying it too much. It may only be a tiny scrap of banter, but it's still a reminder of the good times past, and hope for those still to come.

She sneezes again, aggressively, and several times in succession, eyes and nose streaming as her hand gropes blindly for a tissue which she can't find and he provides.

"I hate colds," is the irritable grumble that accompanies the sounds of nose-blowing and sniffing, though the intended vehemence of her tone is almost entirely eclipsed by fatigue. He resists the urge to point out that she's already told him so.

"Can you stand?" he asks instead, tone quiet, though he seriously doubts it.

"Not on my own," she sighs, as a big yawn escapes her, almost swallows her. "Sorry."

"Don't be." He slips out from beneath her body and gets slowly to his feet, wincing and groaning at tired, inactive muscles that protest angrily at his treatment of them. It takes a minute or two of bending, stretching and twisting to silence the worst offenders, and then he reaches down, easily lifting Grace to her feet, and, keeping his hands firmly on her waist, holds her there as she tries valiantly to stand by herself.

It's not going to happen, he realises. Neither is her walking back to bed. Still, he waits patiently and quietly as she determinedly gives it a try, before eventually looking up at him with a mix of distress, sadness, and a hint of desperate, resigned pleading.

"I can't… please…" she struggles, staggering to one side as her legs refuse to hold her upright.

"Sshh," he murmurs, lifting her effortlessly against his chest, cradling her closely. She's shivering almost violently now, though whether from cold or exhaustion he can't tell. "It's okay, honestly. I've got you. Always."

…

Their bed is very comfortable, though not exactly warm after lying empty for so long. Boyd curls around her, arms and legs tangling with Grace's to hold her flush against his body, to hide her away from the world and its dangers, to keep her snug within the warmth she craves, needs even. To keep the contact with her that he needs, and craves.

"Okay?" he murmurs, and her only response is to snuggle closer and hum softly. They are silent for a while, settling comfortably and letting the pull of sleep begin to reach for them as their thoughts and hearts relax, letting the tension and high stress of their marathon conversation begin to fall away. In its place grows a tranquil sort of calmness, and the kind of heavy but accomplished exhaustion that always seems to follow some kind of hard, intense work or serious event.

"Thank you," Grace eventually says quietly into the darkness around them, and there is a lot of gentle honesty and soft, heartfelt gratitude in her tone. "Thank you for knowing me as well as you do, and for being stubborn enough to not take no for an answer. I needed to talk this through, but I was afraid to – thank you for making me."

"You're not the only one who needed to talk," Boyd acknowledges. "We promised each other that we wouldn't hide anything, that we'd tell the truth, always. We failed at that."

"I know."

"We can't keep it up though," he warns.

"I know that, too."

He smiles inside, kisses the back of her neck to let her know how he's feeling. Slender fingers spread wider, curl around his arm and return the gesture, the sentiment with a hint of pressure. It's the kind of peaceful, intimate communication that he's been without for so long now that he can barely remember sharing it before.

The way they are together, the way they react to one another, how they accommodate moods and thoughts and bad days and good, how they fit with and around each other – it's all so effortless. So easy. He wonders why, how. Has contemplated if illness makes it that way, is frightened that health might change it. Make it harder. Take away some of the peace, the equanimity he has found with her. Sometimes, when he relaxes enough to let his mind wander to such topics, he finds himself locked in a battle – the desperate need for her to recover, for their promised future to stretch out before them, pitted against the fear of losing what they have, the way they are, right now.

He wonders if it's madness – if he's crazy for thinking such thoughts, yet he cannot banish them. Has tried, and failed.

"What did you think of Alex?" she asks, voice muffled by her pillow.

It's a significant question, he thinks, and a distraction he needs. Has she sensed his desire for a new topic? For a question to direct his thoughts elsewhere? He wouldn't put it past her – knows she is more than capable of knowing when such a diversion is necessary. It's who she is, how they are together. But still…

Her closest – and favourite – relative, Alex is away for long stretches of time but is still very dear to Grace, Boyd knows. "I liked him," he answers after brief consideration, and it's the truth. "I'd like to spend more time with him – he was very interesting to talk to, to listen to. He's easy, pleasant company."

"I'm glad."

"Did you doubt?" he queries, curious.

Grace sighs softly, stretches her spine. "No. I wasn't expecting to see him though… it was…"

"Hard?" he suggests, when she seems unable to go on.

"It was," she acknowledges, and there's a lot of pain audible in her tone that he knows is born out of the clinging guilt. Some things cannot be fixed in one night.

"It seemed to me like he took it very well," Boyd hedges, wondering whether or not it is a good idea to continue with this topic, or if this is really one of those things best left well enough alone for the time being. Yet the way it still seems to be nagging at her is what makes him push ahead. "I don't know what the two of you talked about, but he seemed quite happy and relaxed when he left, and he certainly seemed to enjoy the evening."

"He didn't ask me about my diagnosis or treatment, but I told him – I knew he wanted to know. He asked a few questions then, but not many. Just enough to reassure himself, I think. He did ask me about you, though."

Curiosity gets the better of him, and Boyd has to ask, "What did you tell him?"

"That this is permanent. Real. That it matters. That I love you."

Again, he can't help himself. "Did he say anything?"

There's just enough light in the room that he can see a trace of the grin on her face as she cranes her neck to look at him, and he instinctively leans closer, coveting the warm kiss of her body against his own. "He was happy for me. For us. He liked you – said you seemed like a nice man. I've no clue where he got that notion from, though."

Boyd feels the laughter work its way up from deep inside his chest, relishes the feeling of it escaping as it warms his heart, burns away some more of the atmosphere that has been clinging to them both for hours now. From the bottom of the bed there is a loud mew of protest, and then Grace is giggling too, her head pressing into his shoulder where he can feel the physical proof of her amusement against his skin. It's a tiny moment, but in the long, dragging brutality of the night it is one he snatches hold of, clings to because of its ease, its pleasure.

The silence that slowly falls between them is calm, filled with the exhausted serenity left in the wake of such deep and heartfelt revelations. Downstairs the boiler is ticking softly, and around them the house occasionally creaks and groans to itself a little, but that is it. In the room with them Freyja is slowly falling asleep again, lost somewhere between a purr and a snore as their breathing becomes slower, steadier – a gentle night-time harmony. The sheets rustle as Grace moves very slightly, settles herself fractionally more comfortably; the face of the clock glows green, the numbers blurred by his fatigue. He squints, but then gives up, too tired to be bothered caring what the hour is.

"Can you believe Eve was brought up by a psychic?" he murmurs after a while, mind wandering idly now. He feels her soft hum in response and knows without any other proof that she is also smiling. His chest loosens and as he breathes slowly and steadily something unlocks inside him, some strand of remaining tension gradually releasing; it's going to be all right. Somehow he instinctively knows that it is.

"It might explain the incense and all that. And how comfortable she is with death," Grace ponders, her hand tracing his arm until she can rest her palm against his own, their fingers gently entangled.

"Yeah," he agrees. "It's still… weird… though."

"I agree. Definitely. She can't possibly have had a normal childhood, not from all the stories she's told me."

"No?"

"I don't think so. She was orphaned at barely three – she doesn't remember her parents at all."

"That's sad," he sighs, mind rushing back through a host of early memories that are all filled with the happy chaos of older, rowdier siblings, and parents who loved fiercely, but encouraged independence and exploration as well as family unity.

"She loves her aunt, says she had a wonderful life growing up."

He can sense there's more than she's admitting, wonders if he should ask, and then does so anyway. "But?"

"Part of me thinks – and please don't ever tell her I said so – but I wonder if the reason she became a scientist, a pathologist, even, is because no one could ever tell her the exact nature of how they died."

"She doesn't know?"

"No. I think it's a mystery she could never solve."

"That's… a powerful thing to drive someone," he muses.

Grace nods into the pillow, makes a soft sound of agreement. "Mm, yeah." She coughs again, the sound is vicious and harsh as it rattles through her body, and when he puts a hand on her chest and rubs gently he can feel the tremendous amount of strain there, winces at the burning heat of her skin where the fever is raging.

It sends his mind running back to the night he woke to find her unconscious and unresponsive to all his attempts to wake her as infection ran rampantly through her bloodstream, trying its best to slowly kill her. Blue light flickers in the edges of his vision as he remembers calling for an ambulance, afraid he was already too late, remembers waiting minutes that felt like hours for the paramedics to arrive and help him, each second taking an eternity to tick by as he watched her breathing slowly worsen, her skin red-hot under his palms just as it is now. It's not until she sneezes and jerks in his arms that he's pulled from the memories back to the present, his heart thudding wildly, painfully in chest. She sniffs and groans, and that proof that she's still there is what he clings to, what helps drag him back to reality.

Stretching, he's just able to snag another tissue for her, before settling back down again and running a soothing hand across her neck and shoulder, forcing his mind to follow the movements, to count the beats of her heart as his arm slips back around her waist and his palm comes to rest on her chest. The terror of that night has never left him, and the horrific initial thought when he first slipped from slumber to wakefulness that she was dead in bed beside him still stalks his dreams, still plays cruel jokes on him in the darkest hours of the night.

He needs to tell her, he realises. They keep so many secrets from the outside world, hide so many aspects of her health and their life, but not from each other. They promised and they failed, and that can't happen again. This evening has shown him that. She needs every scrap and thread of stubbornness and emotional reserve, along with everything he can give her in the way of love and support to get through this, and that includes absolute trust and honesty between the two of them.

Still, it takes a lot to steel himself, to gather the strength to confess something that has affected him so deeply, and he's still working on it when she beats him to it, as she so often does. "What's wrong?" she asks, her heavy concern easily detectable, despite the fact that her voice is barely more than a whisper.

He starts a little, stares down at her in the darkness. Wishes he could see her clearly, read her expression, her eyes. Look for some sign of how she does it. "How do you know?"

"I can feel it," she replies, trying to smother a yawn that threatens to swallow her whole. Now really isn't the time to be talking about this, he realises. Despite his desire to maintain the honesty, to tell her everything, it's desperately obvious that the evening has gone too far – that she has pushed herself far, far too far. Part of him wants to refuse, to table this confession for the morning, but he can't, he knows. Grace has pushed through a mountain of adversity to share everything she has with him tonight, and now it's his turn to talk, her turn to listen.

Even so, it's hard to begin. To force out the very first words. "I have nightmares, bad ones." He imitates her, concentrates on her breathing. Follows the pattern with his own lungs. "I had a flash from one just now – the night I thought you were…" he trails off. He can't say it, he just can't. He doesn't want to think about it. Ever.

Grace sighs, and her tone is flat, incredibly sad as she speaks. "I thought you might. I'm so sorry. I wish I could take it away, make them stop. If I could, I'd go back to that day and never touch the stupid apple."

"It's not your fault." The need to defend her is instant, instinctive.

She sighs again, tucks her head into his shoulder. "Maybe. I'm not so sure, but thank you for telling me."

The top of her head is a wonderful place for his cheek to rest against, lets him breathe in the scent of her, feel the softness of her hair against his skin as he tugs the quilt a fraction higher. "Honesty," he murmurs, that one word explaining it all.

"I know." There's a tiny pause, and then she says, "I have them, too. Nightmares, that is." He feels the shiver run through her, wonders if he needs to ask, but he doesn't. This new admission isn't something he's ever thought about, and now he wonders why. But then, she always seems to sleep soundly, deeply, even if it doesn't do much to refresh her.

"In mine the cancer is gone, but so are you. I wake up freezing cold and alone every time. I can never get warm, and I can never find you. I call your name, I search – look everywhere – and then I'm suddenly so afraid, so terrified that I'm screaming and screaming, but it doesn't do any good. It's like you're just around the corner, but when I get there that corner is somewhere else – I can never find you, and I know I never will."

Boyd's instinct is to tighten his hold; hers, it seems, is to press back against him. He welcomes it, clutches her securely, closely, almost frantically, and wrestles with the sudden tidal rush of overwhelming, swamping fear. It's fatigue, pure and simple, he knows, but the distant part of his mind that is telling him that isn't big enough or strong enough to push back the horrors, to regain control of his emotions, his thoughts. It's the same for her, he can tell. She shivers in his arms, their individual fears somehow becoming entangled and wrapped together, growing and strengthening as they do, gaining power until they are the only thing occupying their minds.

It takes long minutes until he relaxes enough to murmur softly to her, to do his best to reassure her. How, he wonders, do these thoughts and memories have the power to overwhelm his mind? It seems incredibly irrational, and feels totally alien – completely unlike anything he is accustomed to. He knows all too well how easy it is to lose his temper and fly into a towering rage, knows what it feels like to be swamped by desire, to seethe with jealousy, to hate with a raging, burning passion, but to be overcome with fear to the point of feeling weakened by it… that is something new. Something he would never have contemplated, something he would never have expected to feel, to experience.

It's destabilising, and the path away from that feeling isn't obvious to him. There is nothing he can reach out for and grasp on to, no method he can see to ground himself again. It's not him, doesn't fit with his personality, his approach to life, to emotion, but even so, he's lost. Even, sometimes, in the quiet, unguarded moments, crippled by it.

"You can't fight it," Grace tells him, again somehow intuitively knowing what is going through his mind. "Trust me, Peter, just this once, when I tell you that you cannot outrun or out-fight or hide from this kind of fear. You'll wear yourself out and it'll still be stalking you when the edge is looming, begging you to fall."

Instinct and character makes him bridle, resist. Not fighting an aggressor, a stressor or a conflict in his life is another unnatural concept, one he's never managed to become accustomed to. But then he feels her tense in his arms in response to his reaction, and for her sake he forces it all down, battles to clear his mind and listen, take on board her words.

Change. That dreaded six letter word that simultaneously offers so much challenge and opportunity. "How do I – we – stop it, then?" he asks, for he is not the only one struggling with terror here.

"We don't," is the simple reply that leaves a spreading, unnerving chill trickling down his spine. "You can't stop fear, only deal with it, learn to dismantle it."

He can see where this is going now, decides to blame exhaustion on the length of time it's taken his brain to catch up with hers. "This is going to involve a lot of words, isn't it?"

He doesn't need to see her face, he can feel the smile throughout her body in every place her skin is pressed snugly against his own. "It is," she agrees, clearly working hard to keep the amusement light in her tone.

"So we… talk… about the nightmares," he muses, thinking aloud.

"Mm hm."

"And we analyse them." He glances down at her, feels her nod against him. "And I suppose we pick apart all the tiny, insignificant details and look at where they came from and what they mean." There's a hint of sarcasm now, one he can't repress, though it's coupled with a healthy amount of love and trust; there is only outright amusement from her. "And we emerge from it healthier, happier individuals who have a better understanding of ourselves and each other."

Grace is laughing hard now, so much so she's trembling in his arms, her breath wheezing noisily in and out of her chest.

"Have I ever…" she gasps, "said anything… like _that_ to you?"

Boyd's arms twine tighter around her torso, his nose trailing through her spiky hair as he brushes tiny, lingering kisses amongst the strands.

"Admittedly not, no," he grins, incredibly glad the tension has so spectacularly broken and eased away. "But, you know…"

"I do. I do indeed. You couldn't let the opportunity pass." Slender fingers wander along his arm, her thumb finding the slight ridge of a mole there and tracing it delicately, the rest of the digits following suit. Eyes closing, he concentrates on the sensation, tries to let everything else fall away.

"Talking it is, then," he murmurs eventually, resigned to his fate. "But not now, though," he adds, determined not to lose the soothing, relaxing atmosphere that has wrapped around them both in the last few minutes.

"Good lord, no," sighs Grace, with feeling. "I'm done in, and so are you." He feels another slight tremor of laughter run through her. "But just think, we have until after New Year to talk about it all, completely uninterrupted."

He rolls his eyes, retorts dryly, "What a thrilling prospect." It's all good-natured though, for where wouldn't he go, and what wouldn't he do to help her. To help them both.

They settle once more, sinking ever closer towards the heavy darkness of slumber. Boyd tries to let it all go, to think of nothing but the way she feels, how she smells, what his senses tell him about her and the way she is so thoroughly entwined with him. They drift interminably, though he can sense there is something else, something more she wants, and needs, to address. He's patient now, though, worn down to the point he can simply wait her out as they both hover in that not quite dozing, drifting sector of diminishing consciousness.

Finally, eventually, she dares to ask, and it's _the_ question, the one that neither has touched. Until now.

"What if it never happens? What if I don't get better, Peter? What then?"

"I don't know how to answer that," he sighs, mind sorting sluggishly through the possible responses and gauging them all for truthfulness. "I want to say that it isn't going to happen, it's not going to be an issue, but I can't. And that hurts."

There is silence between them, broken only by the sleepy snores of the cat and tick of the clock downstairs. It's not a question he can answer, not a real answer. He's tried – many times now – to work his way through it, his mind usually taking him straight there every time the darkest hours roll around, but he rarely gets anywhere, instead kicks the notion as far away as possible, as quickly as possible. He can't deal with it, doesn't know how to deal with it, and so he avoids it. Ignores it, even.

And every time it happens, in every instance when it has caught up with him, stalked him, worried him, scared him, he's done exactly the same thing – run back to her, held her, called her, listened to her, watched her or rescued her. Anything to remind himself that the living hell of limbo is on-going. That nothing has changed. Nothing has ended.

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Grace, and I wish that… that I could say that that should be enough to make it happen, because I feel like it should."

"Sometimes," she begins, and the hesitancy in her tone is clearly audible, the fear in her clearly evident. "Sometimes I try and imagine what the future might be like – what we could have if we wanted, what we could do, see. Experience. Feel. But I can't do it. I can think about the possibility that we can have a life together, that you promised me we would get there, but not what happens afterwards."

He's tempted to jump in, to insist that they _are_ going to have that future, that it's not simply a possibility, but something inside prevents him from doing so. It would be a lie, he knows, and that… is not what they agreed. Not what they need. Instead he asks a thoughtful, "What can you see?

"Nothing," she answers, the word catching in her throat. "Literally nothing. I can only think of the concept of a life together, only hold on to that as the target I'm trying desperately to reach for."

He's not prepared for just how devastating the blow her words create is, because in his spare moments he has fought back the horrors by daydreaming, has conjured up images and ideas and thoughts of what he wants for them, what he would like to share with her, show her, do with her.

"It scares me," she admits, voice wavering and the edge of tears fighting to break free again, "that I can see nothing, think of nothing. It's what I want more than anything, but my mind won't let me see it. I think it's because I'm afraid to believe it's possible."

Boyd seizes on her last words, instantly picking them apart and realising what she's not seeing. "Are you?"

"What?"

"Afraid it's not possible?"

Grace cranes her neck, looks up at him, bewildered. "Of course I am. I'm terrified of it. Aren't you?"

"Yes," he agrees, far more easily than he would have thought had he foreseen this in advance, and that thought alone makes him realise how much affect even just a single conversation can have and the change it can bring, how much tonight has changed him. His outlook. His perspective.

"I hate it," she admits, voice wavering. "It's bothered me for months, because I've tried and tried and tried to imagine so many different things – quiet evenings, shared meals, holidays, weekends, sex, working together again, retirement – and every single time nothing happens. If I'm lucky I get the briefest flash of a picture or two, but then it disappears, is gone forever. And that… that scares me more than almost everything else. Because if I can't see it, if I can't imagine it, then surely there's a good reason for it? Something I'm not facing up to or dealing with?"

"No!" He protests, alarm bells instantly pounding heavily inside his skull as he firmly and unequivocally ends her train of thought before she even can begin to expand on it. "No, Grace. Just, no. Don't go there."

She sighs heavily, sadly. "But don't you think –"

"No," he interrupts. "I don't. Not at all. I'll tell you what I think, I think you've been through a huge amount of trauma recently, both physically and emotionally, and you've had no time to step back and relax and begin to deal with it. I think it's just your mind doing its best to cope with everything that's going on, and that it's not something you need to worry about."

"But –"

"No. Grace, remember what you always tell me – trauma affects us all differently. You are not an exception to that rule, and guess what – that's okay. You're okay." Boyd pauses and winces. "Well, you're not, actually. I mean, you are, but you're… oh, you know what I'm trying to say."

"I do."

He sighs. "Thank you. Anyway, my point is, it doesn't matter. What you can or can't imagine is not in any way predictive of the future."

She's silent for what feels like eternity. Then she offers a simple, unadorned, "Okay."

"Okay?" It's disconcerting to say the least. Such easy acquiescence is not what he was expecting. Not at all.

"Okay," she confirms, easily. "I'm too tired to argue, and anyway, you're right."

A slightly stunned, "Oh," is the best he can manage.

Silence falls again, allowing him to collect his thoughts and digest the last few minutes. It's easy to slip back into that calm, relaxed state of almost-slumber.

"Are we going to be all right?" she asks, sleepily.

"We are," he tells her, feeling suddenly optimistic.

"Good," mumbles Grace, the word obscured by a colossal yawn.

"Good," he echoes, saying nothing as Freyja pushes her luck and creeps slowly, stealthily up the bed to curl up against the small of his back.

"Peter?" She's very nearly asleep now.

He cuddles her closer, closes his eyes. Holds his breath as the cat settles again. "Mm?"

"Tell me what you see?" she requests. Almost asleep himself, he smiles. And tells her.


End file.
